The Second Face
by 90TheGeneral09
Summary: What if Mark hadn't become Henry's enemy? What if they'd stayed friends? NOTE: Uses some canon text from the 1993 movie's tie-in novel. Also, the title is borrowed from the German-release title for the film, "Das Zweite Gesicht".
1. Chapter 1- The Bridge

**CHAPTER I- The Bridge**

* * *

Henry crossed the road behind him. "Aw, Mr. Righteous Goody Two-Shoes." Mark quickly crossed to the other side of the road. This time Henry didn't follow.

Not for the first ten minutes of the walk home, at least. It amazed Mark how long the walk back was; maybe the shock of what he'd done- what he'd just helped Henry do- made it seem all the longer. But Henry crossed the road one more time, and came up beside Mark. When he did, Mark realized Henry had not at all decided to leave him alone. He'd gotten the message, surely; Mark's actions must have shouted that he didn't want to talk to Henry. But his cousin was here, walking quietly beside Mark.

Thinking.

What about became clear when Henry spoke. And when he did, it was with a different tone than before. Not gleeful, or mocking. But serious, excited in a new way- as if Henry was eager to hear Mark's response but trying not to show it.

"Mark, how did it make you feel when your mother died?"

Anger flared within Mark. The nerve of even asking something like that, after causing that pileup on the highway! "Shut up."

"Mark. I want to know. How did it make you feel?"

Mark halted, his shoes scraping on the cold, ice-encrusted edge of the pavement. Henry stopped too, without a sound. Mark looked him straight in the eyes. Henry's eyes were cold; they always were. But his face was solemn, and his manner- apparently- sincere. For whatever reason, he really was asking. Henry prompted him. "Did it make you feel helpless, Mark? Like there was nothing you could do?"

Mark nodded, slowly. That was true, but why did _Henry_ care? Henry looked straight at Mark, a strange light dancing in his eyes. "Mark, you have to stop being afraid all the time. You have to stop letting the world control _you_, and start controlling _it_."

Mark looked at his cousin, his emotions in turmoil. What they'd just done… it was unforgiveable. It was wrong in every way. Afterwards Henry's joy at the carnage had been just sickening. But what was he doing _now_?

Mark put his confusion into a question. "What do you mean? How can you talk about this, after what you just did-"

Henry cut him off. "It's about who you want to be, Mark. Man or mouse?"

This question Mark just didn't understand. He wanted to turn away, to put his back to Henry and ignore him completely. Just walk home. But something- Mark couldn't say what- kept him from actually doing it. Henry repeated the question. "Man or mouse?"

Thoughts and emotions swam around in Mark's head, and his heart. Reasons for either answer waged war in his mind. But ultimately Henry's words in the tool shed came back to him. "I can show you something amazing. Something you'll never forget. Are you in?"

A long time seemed to pass; maybe it was just a minute or two, but it felt like eternity. Finally Mark spoke.

"Man."

And Henry smiled. "No more tests, Mark. You've passed." Mark looked at his cousin, shocked. "You were testing me? All those times! Kicking me at the table, then the dog, then this!" Henry nodded. "That's right." "So what happens now?" Henry shrugged. "I don't know just yet. But it's cold, and they'll be looking for whoever dropped Mr. Highway." A smile crept back onto Henry's face, one that glinted off his ice-blue eyes. Henry had an idea, and Mark found he was, in spite of himself, somewhat excited to find he was a part of it once more. Henry gestured down the road where they'd been walking. "Let's head home, brother." And the two walked on in a silence much more comfortable than before, side by side observing the lead-gray sky and the newly-fallen snow.


	2. Chapter 2- Lies for Dinner

**CHAPTER II- Lies for Dinner**

* * *

Mark was quiet during dinner, and had to be reminded to touch his food. His stomach felt like it was in a knot; a knot of lingering guilt over what had happened, confusion about what Henry had said to him, and uncertainty of what would happen next. Susan asked if something was wrong and Mark almost told her, his doubts and fears nearly winning him over. But then he caught sight of Henry, watching him calmly. Say what you like, the look said. I'm not worried. And you shouldn't be either.

After a few moments the knot relaxed a little. It felt good, and Mark felt… different. Like things were going to be okay. Nobody had died today anyhow; just a few banged up cars. Mark had never felt like this before, never even considered thinking such things before meeting Henry. There were still too many doubts, too many questions. But the knot in his stomach relaxed some, and Mark was able to honestly answer Susan.

"No, everything's fine. Henry walked us up to that tavern in town."

Susan smiled knowingly. "The one that catches all their lobster off the coast?"

Mark nodded, and Henry smiled sheepishly, adding, "We couldn't help ourselves. Just wanted to show Mark around, Mom."

Susan relaxed completely at that, not doubting it for a second. "I'm sure Mrs. McRoy was glad to see you showing Maine hospitality, Henry. But try to remember you've got one of the best cooks in town right at home, too." Henry gave that boyish smile of embarrassment again. "Yes, Mom." Mark, meanwhile, was stunned. Not at Susan or even Henry, but at himself.

Did he just help Henry tell a lie? No. He just told a lie. Henry helped him. Mark could hardly believe the words he'd spoken. But spoken them he had, regardless.

Why?

All through dinner Mark thought about what had happened; about Henry and what to do about him. Anything? Nothing? Henry clearly wanted to be a friend still, and Mark, reluctant as he was to admit it, was painfully aware of how badly he needed friends right now. His father and Alice Davenport were hardly good substitutes, and Susan, no matter how wonderful a person she clearly was, was still a mother. Henry could be a different kind of friend than any of them. Henry would glance at Mark from time to time, but when Mark looked back, it was with a calm enough face.

Henry didn't seem worried from the start, but even so he might have relaxed a little. Once Mark saw Henry smile at him, and not in a cold or mocking way, but in a warmer, almost reassuring manner. As if he had read, or at least sensed Mark's conflicted thoughts, and was silently saying, "It's all right. You're doing just fine."

After dinner, Mark went into the kitchen and helped with the dishes. Susan was standing at the sink wearing an apron and yellow rubber gloves. She was rinsing the dishes and putting them into the dishwasher. Mark joined her, scraping the leftovers off the plates and into the garbage disposal.

"Oh, Mark," Susan said, "you don't have to help."

"I want to." Mark said.

"Why don't you go play with Henry?"

Mark shrugged, but only a little. Susan glanced at him and frowned. "It seems like something's bothering you. Is it because your father's only called once since he went away?"

Henry appeared in the doorway. "Oh, Mom, we must've forgot to tell you- Uncle Jack called and told Mark when he landed in Tokyo that he might not be able to call for the next few days."

Susan looked at Mark for confirmation. Though a little irked at Henry just inviting himself into the conversation he was having with Susan, Mark did appreciate Henry helping cover for him. He couldn't tell her the real reason he was feeling- not gloomy, just off balance, for now at least- so he decided to use his father as an excuse.

"Sort of." Mark said.

Susan nodded sympathetically. "It must be difficult for you right now."

Mark nodded back. It was strange how his other problems had receded in the face of this new… problem? Situation. That was Henry. A situation wrapped in a cloak of mystery. Mark was really tempted to tell her about it. But how could he? Even though he felt a strong bond with Susan, he hardly knew her. And she hardly knew him. What would he say to her, anyway? Mark couldn't even decide what part of this to tell her about.

"When did he say he'd call again?" Susan asked.

Henry stepped in again. "When he had time. Mark was really understanding about it, Mom. It's hard for Uncle Jack out there, and he's got a lot to do while he's in Japan. Mark told Uncle Jack all that."

Mark looked at Henry, surprised. Was his cousin almost_ proud_ of him? Knowing Henry, he was faking it. But even if he was, for once Henry seemed to be faking it to _help_ Mark, not just to get some kicks himself. And Mark appreciated that.

But where Henry might have been faking, Susan was entirely sincere. She looked at Mark, smiling with almost a sense of wonder. "You really are a good son, Mark. It's good that you understand that; a lot of boys your age wouldn't."

Henry smiled, still leaning against the doorframe. "Like me, huh, Mom?"

Susan laughed, feigning irritation and ordering Henry to pitch in with work on the dishes. Once they were all loaded in and the dishwasher humming away, she shooed them out of the kitchen with a plate of cookies. They were a mix of sugar and chocolate chip, some of the best cookies Mark had ever had. He and Henry finished them over the kitchen table, reading some old Sunday comics. Henry talked now and then about the older comics and even brought Mark some newer ones, but Mark wouldn't say much. For now, he really just wanted to avoid the whole issue of what had happened that day, and since Henry was part of the confusion that included him too. When Mark quietly told Henry this, he simply nodded, stood up and bowed gracefully to Mark, and left the room, leaving Mark with best old and new comics to be found in the house.

Susan and Connie sat at a window seat near the kitchen window. Connie was cuddled in her mother's arms, and together they watched the snowflakes float down through the lights outside, Connie exclaiming in delight whenever they were pushed into beautiful swirling patterns by gusts of wind.

Susan had a small color TV in the kitchen, and she usually listened to the local evening news while she cleaned. Mark wasn't even paying attention until he heard something about a four-car accident closing down all lanes of a highway.

Four cars? They'd only thought it was three. Henry would be pleased.

Mark looked up and felt the blood drain from his face. Why had he just had that thought? Where did that even come from?

On the TV was the same view from the bridge he'd had earlier that afternoon. As the camera looked over the highway, first Mark saw the wrecks intermingled with police cars, emergency vehicles, and tow trucks. Then behind that there were three lanes of backed up traffic, waiting for the highway to reopen.

The TV crew must have shot it from up on the bridge.


	3. Chapter 3- Henry's Game

**CHAPTER III- Henry's Game**

* * *

Now the scene on the TV switched from day to night, and a woman with red hair stepped in front of the camera. She was holding the microphone and trying to brush the falling snow off her shoulders as she talked. At the rate the snow was beginning to fall, she wasn't having much success. In the background, headlights flashed past and disappeared under the bridge.

"And that was the way it was for several hours this afternoon," she was saying. "As you can see now, things are moving again. But traffic was backed up for four miles on the northbound side. Even after the cars blocking the route were cleared, traffic continued to move slowly for several hours while police and tow-truck operators cleared debris from the road."

The scene now jumped back to the news studio, and a gray-haired man sitting at a news desk was turned toward a TV monitor, where Mark could see the red-haired woman still standing at the bridge.

"Now you say, Monica, that no one was hurt," the gray-haired man said. "That's right, Jim," said the red-haired woman. "Ambulances were sent to the scene, but they weren't needed. Several law-enforcement officials on the scene have told me it was a miracle no one was injured."

Mark felt the knot in his stomach tighten again. He had to leave. He couldn't sit here listening to this. It was bad enough what had happened today, and no small amount of confusing as well- Mark didn't need to be reminded of it. He had to pause before getting up- Mark was feeling more than a little tense all of a sudden, and if he burst from his chair like a coiled spring he'd bring unneeded attention to himself.

Mark stood up and cast a glance over at Susan by the window- she happened to be looking his way, too, and perhaps sensed some part of the turmoil within Mark.

"Are you all right, Mark?"

For a second Mark just stared back at her. He was on the verge of saying something, some part of what had happened today and how it was bothering him…

"Is something wrong?" Susan asked.

Silently, Mark willed himself to be calm. He had to be, at least right now. He couldn't tell her. Not Susan. And again, what was he even going to say? Mark calmed himself with that thought, with the simple knowledge that he needed to think this through and make a decision before he went to anybody. Otherwise he'd just get both himself and Henry in trouble. And he needed Henry's friendship. No matter who Henry might really be, Mark couldn't just turn on him now.

"No, everything's fine." Mark even added a little smile, which calmed Susan in turn. "Good night, Mark." She said, and after Mark echoed the sentiment, she soon returned her attention to Connie and watching the snow fall outside. With a panel of glass in between, its flawless, beautiful surface hid the merciless cold it really held.

Mark walked out of the kitchen and down the hall towards Wallace's study. Henry's father had said something about doing a little work after dinner. Now, through the half-open study door, Mark could see Wallace's back as he sat at his desk.

Mark slowly walked down the hall toward him. That crazy urge to tell someone was returning again, getting stronger every inch he stepped forward. He was trying to collect his thoughts- and not having too easy a time of it. But maybe he should say something. And if he was to tell anyone, Wallace was the person. Wallace was… in charge. He was the father, the boss. No matter what, he'd know what to do.

As Mark stepped down the hall, he passed an open doorway to his right. Inside it was dark.

Suddenly, a whisper sprang out: "Go ahead. Tell him."

Mark jumped. His heart began to race. A moment later Henry appeared out of the dark. Henry moved closer, a smile playing across his lips. He was looking smug, especially pleased with himself. Mark felt his throat grow tight.

"Better yet," his cousin whispered, "why don't we tell him together?"

"Drop dead," Mark whispered back, throwing a nervous glance down the hall. Through the doorway he could see Wallace was still hunched over his desk, unaware of the conversation taking place in the hallway behind him.

"Are you sure you really want that?" Henry whispered, that smile still on his face. Then his voice took on an innocent tone, as if he was speaking to his father, perhaps as a ghost.

"It's too bad for Mark, Dad," he said. "He wished me dead and my heart just stopped, the very day I told him he'd passed the last of my tests. The day before I was gonna do it. Show him something amazing, something he'd never forget… and now he'll never know what it was."

Henry gazed at him in the dark, and asked, "Is that what you want?"

Mark just stared at Henry. He didn't know what to say.

"Nothing happened today, Mark. A few cars got banged up," Henry said, speaking Mark's exact thoughts from earlier in the evening. That alone jolted Mark, though it couldn't have been anything but coincidence.

"Why feel so guilty, Mark? Why be scared all the time?" Henry put this two-pronged question to Mark, his face now serious, and walked- seemed to glide, so smooth and calm was his pace- down the hall, then up the stairs to his room.

Mark couldn't remember later how long he stood in the hallway by himself. All he did remember was that he was there for at least fifteen minutes, and at one point even stood right outside Wallace's office, hand balled into a fist and raised to knock on the door.

But ultimately Mark let his hand fall, and headed for the stairs without a word.

Henry was lying on his bed when Mark arrived, holding an expensive-looking model of a submarine in his hands as he stared up at it- or the ceiling. Henry stayed where he was as Mark came in, but greeted him with, "You know, you've been acting a little weird lately, Mark. Before you got here Dad told me to make sure you were doing okay." Now he cast a glance at his cousin. "Well, are you okay, Mark?"

Mark said nothing as he sat down on his own bed, and also rolled on his back to look up at the ceiling. Henry made a sound of mock disappointment. "Aw, Mr. Guilty Conscience." But Mark said nothing- neither angry nor pleased with Henry, he was trying to figure out what his next move would be. Henry seemed to be content to leave him be- or perhaps lost interest and resumed looking at the model submarine. After a few minutes of silence Mark heard Connie's light, energetic feet bouncing up the stairs. Sure enough, she appeared in the doorway a moment later, her face the very picture of childish excitement. "Hey, hey! Guess what? Mom says we can go skating tomorrow!" In her enthusiasm, Connie stepped through the doorway and into the room. Henry, paying no attention to Connie before, suddenly looked at her sharply and set down the model. Mark looked at him as Henry got up, and saw a very cold and hateful look come onto his face. He walked over to his sister, glowering over her. "Connie, what did I tell you about coming into my room?"

His sister looked puzzled. "But you guys aren't working or anything."

Now Henry grabbed her ears and yanked hard, cocking his head to the side in annoyance. "Ow, that hurts!" Connie yelped. "You didn't answer my question, so I'm gonna have to do it for you!" Henry hissed angrily.

"Ow, let go!"

"You're not allowed to come into my room! Not now, not ever! _Never_!"

Mark suddenly stood up. This was too much. He crossed the room quickly, reaching out for Henry as he shook his sister furiously, ignoring the tears of pain streaking her face. "Did you hear what I-" Henry was saying when Mark grabbed him by the throat and slammed him against the closet door.

Henry mustered only a surprised "Urk" while Connie ran from the room. "Mom! Mom! They're fighting!" she cried, fleeing downstairs.

"You shouldn't do that to her- she's your sister!" Mark hissed. Henry forced his hands under Mark's grip, relaxing his throat. "Who cares?" he hissed back. "All she does is take my parents' attention away from me!" Henry's voice became very angry now, the fury rising in his eyes. "And I was born first!" Mark now shook Henry in anger where he had just done the same to his sister. "Then try being a good son for once! A good brother! They'll love you for that and so will she!" the words were out of Mark's mouth before even he fully understood them. But while Mark might have been uncertain as to the meaning of his own words, they certainly had an effect on Henry.

Henry's fury faded, and in its place an eerie calm appeared. A small but very unpleasant smile crept onto Henry's lips. It was the look of a challenge accepted.

"You're smart, Mark." Henry said quietly. "I like you." Then, before Mark could say anything, Henry's shot up and grabbed to handfuls of Mark's hair. Sharp, sudden pain lanced through Mark's head. "Ow!" he cried. "What are you doing?"

Henry grinned fiendishly. He chuckled, a sound that was suddenly very frightening the way Henry did it. "Connie thinks we're fighting. So let's fight, Mark. Come on, you don't want my Mom to think Connie lied, do you?"

Mark was still pretty angry with Henry, so he found it easy enough to oblige. He grabbed to handfuls of Henry's fine blonde hair and pulled. Soon both had their eyes locked close together, engaged in a fierce mock battle where neither was willing to give in to the pain.

"How's this look? Good enough?" Mark grunted as Henry gave his hair a sharp jerk. Henry chuckled again. "Yeah. Pretty good."

Footsteps coming up the stairs; right away Henry knew it was his mother. "Just play along," he whispered with a wink. "I do this stuff all the time."

"Boys, boys!" Susan cried, astonished at seeing the two- apparently- in some kind of fight. They immediately broke apart and faced her. Casting a glance at Henry, Mark was astonished again at how quickly his cousin could shift from one expression, projecting one image, to entirely another. One minute he was gloating, hidden-mastermind Henry- this one he was slightly cowed, apologetic Henry, projecting the very picture of sheepish, boyish regret.

"I'm sorry, Mom," Henry said, glancing down at the floor then back up at his mother. "We were playing this really dumb game. We weren't fighting, though. Honest." He looked at his cousin for confirmation. "Right, Mark?"

Mark realised he was supposed to play along… but… this all felt very strange to him. Deceiving people was clearly nothing new to Henry. Mark knew nothing about it at all. A strange feeling of fear ran through him. What if Mark tried to imitate his cousin and failed? What if Susan just saw right through the façade?

Henry briefly locked eyes with his cousin. Play along, his eyes said. Play along and I'll take care of it. Finally, Mark went ahead. "Yeah… yeah. We were just playing." He said quietly.

For a moment- just a moment, only- it looked like Susan wanted to question them, ask if something funny had gone on between them today. But if that thought occurred to Susan, she didn't pay much attention to it. Instead, the look past and she smiled in relief. "Well, all right." She said, adding, "Just don't play so rough, okay? You two looked like you were trying to kill each other." She then turned and headed back down the stairs.

Why didn't Susan say anything about Connie- about how mean Henry had just been to her? Mark found himself staring after his aunt in astonishment. Was Henry really that good?

Mark broke out of his reverie to find Henry staring at him, smiling that wolfish grin of his that looked a little out of place on a twelve-year-old boy. He skipped lightly across the room and flopped down on his bed, leaning up against the pillows and staring back at Mark, still grinning. "Impressed?" he asked.


	4. Chapter 4- Nighttime in Henry's Room

**CHAPTER IV- Nighttime in Henry's Room**

* * *

Mark walked slowly over to his bed, sitting down on it on the other side of the room. "I don't know."

Henry laughed, and to Mark it sounded… odd. A little colder than it should have been. It was like hearing icicles imitate flawlessly the laugh of a twelve-year-old boy, chiming the sound out perfectly as they swayed in the frigid wind.

"You don't _know_?" Henry repeated, a slight tone of mocking in his voice. "Come on, Mark. This is _my_ room. _Real_ thinking gets done here."

Mark looked up at his cousin. "It's my room. Your mom said I can stay."

The blonde kid sitting on the opposite bed smiled indulgently at his cousin. "Yes, she did. You can stay here all you want, Mark. It's nice, not having to put up with just my kid sister anymore."

Henry sighed a little. "It just hasn't been the same since we lost Richard."

Mark started. This was eerie; this was the second time Henry had talked about his younger brother, dead years ago from drowning in the bathtub. He sounded wistful, a little sad about it, but the regret sounded… forced. Like Henry was having to fake it.

Henry had been staring up at the ceiling for a time while Mark thought to himself, but now he turned his gaze back to his cousin. "You like my sister, don't you?" Henry said, that wolfish grin returning. "Yeah." Mark said simply, unsure of what Henry was getting at with this.

"Well, you'd be sad if something happened to her, right? If she got… hurt."

Hurt?

Henry shrugged, a little you-know-how-it-is expression, and went on, "But hey, accidents happen. I know about Richard- I found him." Now that mean, predatory look on Henry's face was present in full. The harmless, boyish smile wasn't there anymore. "But if you really want a good story sometime… you should ask my _mom_ about Richard."

Mark suddenly felt very cold.

His unease must have shown throughout the evening, because Henry seemed to sense he'd perhaps gone too far, and spent much of the remaining hours before- and after- bedtime assuring Mark everything was fine, and that he hadn't done the wrong thing. He also asked about something Mark had said earlier that night.

"Mark…" Henry's voice drifted over to him in the darkness. "Yeah?" Mark responded, halfway wishing his cousin would just go to bed and leave him alone. He still had way too much to think about.

"You really do like my sister, don't you?"

That question again.

Mark finally decided he had to say something, and responded, "Yes, I do. She's nice to me."

"Aren't _I_, too?" Now Henry's whisper sounded a bit envious. That feeling- envy- came out very easily in Henry, it seemed.

Mark shrugged, despite the fact that Henry probably couldn't see him in the dark. This was incorrect, as it happened- had an optician been present, one who had truly achieved expertise in dealing with the eyes of children, he'd have likely been astonished at how good Henry's sight in the dark really was. And in the light. If Henry ever bragged he could see everything, he'd have been closer to telling the truth than most.

Mark answered his cousin, "Yeah. Most of the time. Connie's just nice to everybody, though."

"Except me." Henry spat. "Bratty little kid sister."

"Maybe if you were nicer to her," Mark suggested, "Maybe if you weren't always so mean…"

Henry laughed a little, genuinely amused. "You've never seen me get mean, Mark." Mark stopped briefly, glancing over at his cousin. Henry's smile was there in the dark, yes, but it didn't touch his eyes. He meant it.

Mark decided to turn his gaze back to the ceiling- staring at Henry for too long gave him a weird feeling. It wasn't something he felt looking at friends of his back in Arizona, like Alan Parks. Henry almost seemed to be…

Missing something?

Mark shrugged a little, if only to himself. Maybe he was just imagining things. He decided to continue what he was saying to Henry. Maybe his cousin would hear him out, consider his suggestions. In spite of all the strange and sometimes mean things he would say and do, Henry seemed to genuinely like Mark.

"You shouldn't be so mean to Connie all the time, Henry. That's all I'm saying."

"And what should I do instead?"

Mark shrugged again. "Be nice to her sometime."

Henry looked back at the ceiling. "Be nice to her… be nice to Connie…"

Mark glanced over at the blonde. He couldn't quite figure what his cousin's tone was this time. Was he taking Mark seriously, or just pretending to? With Henry, it could be almost impossible to tell.

Henry shrugged a little, and as he said "Maybe I will sometime, Mark," Mark noticed something odd- when Henry had shrugged that time, his bare shoulders had appeared above the covers.

They were in a warm house, sure, but it was the middle of a freezing Maine winter and Henry's bed was right next to a window. How could he possibly sleep with his shirt off? And why? Even for Henry that was strange. Mark decided to ask him about it.

Henry laughed again, glancing over at his cousin, amused. He sat up a bit to confirm Mark's observation- his shoulders, chest, and middle were indeed completely bare. "It's my hot Yankee blood," Henry explained. "I sleep like this to keep from getting too warm." Then Henry got a funny look in his eye and said, "I'm actually naked, Mark. Wanna see?"

That was too much for Mark. "Eww, _gross_!" he exclaimed, too loud for so late at night. Even so, both of them broke up laughing. Mark found himself laughing halfway out of simple relief; somehow, Henry telling Mark something as ridiculous as that had made them both feel at ease again. Mark went to sleep a short time later, dropping off much more easily than he'd expected.

As for Henry, though, he simply lay on his back, hands folded behind his head, for at least an hour after he watched his cousin go to sleep. He was indeed undressed- his clothes lay at the end of the bed, folded with obsessive neatness. He'd undressed when Mark had left to brush his teeth- Henry had already done that- and was already under the covers when Mark returned. Henry did this almost every night, and he'd never been able to explain why. It just… felt _good_.

Henry gazed up at the ceiling in the dark. Had Mark been awake to watch, he might have felt real fear for the first time that day.

As Henry stared at the white ceiling, a sunken, rather horrible grin slowly worked its way onto his face. Everything had gone very well so far, all things considered. Sure, Mark had pushed back at times, resisted quite strongly at others. But slowly… very slowly… he was coming around to Henry's way of thinking. Henry could already tell. It was going to take a long time for Mark to make the whole trip- Henry was as sure of that as anything. But… as long as he got there eventually…

Henry began to laugh silently in the dark. This was going to be amazing. The most fun he'd ever had was just waiting out there for him, in those two weeks he had left to spend with his cousin.

Henry looked forward to sending a very… different… Mark back to Arizona with Uncle Jack. It was going to be fun to see that, indeed.


	5. Chapter 5- Walk in the Park

**Chapter V- Walk in the Park**

* * *

Bright sunlight was streaming through the curtains when Mark awoke the next morning. Immediately he glanced at Henry's bed. The bed was empty, and Mark wondered how much earlier than him Henry had gotten up, or where he'd gone. They'd both stayed up for a long time last night, but obviously Henry hadn't had any difficulty in getting up bright and early the next day. A brief feeling of irritation ran through Mark; he knew Henry was adventurous and often liked to be alone, but he wished Henry would stop leaving him out of things. If they were supposed to be friends Henry needed to act like it more.

And stop doing awful things and then making Mark part of them.

Mark got up and went to the window. He had to squint in the bright light. Outside, the sun was shining, and its light was reflected off the thick blanket of newly-fallen snow. Mark stared, fascinated and amazed. He'd never seen so much snow in his life. It covered every inch of ground, as well as every bush and tree. For a moment, Mark forgot about all his other concerns and worries; he just wanted to go outside and jump in the stuff. He wanted to do all the things he'd heard of but had never been able to do, like make snowmen and snow angels and have snowball fights.

Then Mark glanced again at Henry's empty, unmade bed. Briefly, a deep feeling of unease ran through him. Maybe he wouldn't have time to play today; it was possible Mark would need to look towards more pressing concerns.

Like what?, his mind asked. Mark had a hard time answering that. Finally, he shrugged to himself, and headed for the bathroom to dress. He could figure out what he was gonna do once he learned where Henry had gone, or once Henry got back.

After a moment, Mark reconsidered. He didn't have to wait on Henry, did he? If his cousin wanted to get up before Mark and go do something without waking him, maybe Henry wanted to be alone for the time being. In any case, now might be a good time for Mark to spend some time on his own. That seemed like a good idea; there was a lot of thinking he needed to do. Henry seemed interested, even eager, in being friends with Mark… but he had a very bizarre idea of fun, and almost seemed to want Mark to start finding those things fun, too. Mark felt very alone in the world right now, and he knew he couldn't turn away someone offering to be his friend. But Henry wasn't like most people. Yes, that decided Mark. He'd find something else to do for now; he could concern himself with whatever Henry was doing later.

Mark dressed quickly and hurried downstairs. He could somehow sense that Henry was not only out of his room but out of the house. It was weird how the house felt different when Henry wasn't there. It was as if his presence made the air heavier, darkened the shadows and made the light places seem weaker. When Henry wasn't there, the house felt warmer, lighter, and brighter. Maybe that was saying too much… maybe it was just Mark's imagination. But Henry did have an imposing presence; knowing him was not a simple experience, not when you realised he wasn't the simple, well-mannered boy he appeared to be.

Mark went into the kitchen. Susan was standing by the sink, doing the dishes. It looked as if breakfast was finished.

"Where's Connie?" Mark asked.

Susan turned from the sink and gave him a funny look. "She was here a moment ago. Why?"

"She didn't go out, did she?" Mark asked.

"No, I don't think so. Is something wrong?"

Mark paused to consider that. Was there? Finally, he shook his head. "No. Nothing." Mark yawned, stretching a little. He wasn't fully awake yet, it seemed. "No," he added, "I was just wondering where Connie was."

Susan frowned. "You look tired."

Mark shrugged; he had been up late talking with Henry last night- as well as thinking, over and over, about the blonde boy who was offering to be his friend, albeit a very unusual one. But he wasn't about to tell Susan much of this; she'd probably have questions Mark didn't want to answer.

"Hungry?" Susan asked.

Mark nodded, glancing around him. "Have you seen Henry?"

Susan nodded. "He went out about an hour ago; he was on another of his secret missions. I'm sure he just wanted to let you sleep in; Henry seems very glad you're here."

Mark nodded, smiling a little; that much was certainly true, regardless of how much else was or wasn't. "Yeah," Mark said, "he does."

Susan smiled at that. "So," she asked, "what would you like for breakfast?"

"Oh, anything you've got," Mark said. He walked over to the doorway to the living room and looked through it, hoping he'd see Connie there. She wasn't.

"Looking for something?" Susan asked.

"Uh, not really," Mark said, feeling somehow uneasy. He headed back in to the kitchen, sitting down at the table. If Connie was still in the house, he'd hear the door slam when she went out. That was that; no sense worrying about it.

"How about scrambled eggs and toast?" Susan asked.

"Sounds great," Mark said, smiling. Susan's cooking was quite good, just like… just like his mother's. Mark's smile faded a little. He didn't like thinking about his mother right now; it was all much too saddening. He'd have to work things out sometime, though. Sometime… but maybe not this morning.

Mark sat at the table, getting about as comfortable as he could on the hard wooden chair. He was still on edge, though- what if Connie had gone outside?

What if Henry had been out there, waiting for her?

And then, on the heels of those two questions, a third- _And why should that matter_?

Mark wasn't sure why. He couldn't answer that. He just knew Henry was scary sometimes… killing that dog had clearly meant nothing to Henry. He'd even found it funny. And the same went for throwing that dummy off the bridge, all the trouble doing that had caused all those people. Henry didn't care; he just didn't. Maybe he'd never learned how… or had never been able.

That was a very strange thing to think about. And frightening.

If any other kid in the world had implied that he was going to do something bad to his little sister, Mark would have ignored it. But not Henry. True, Henry had listened when Mark had argued with him, and they'd patched things up last night… mostly. But even so, the fact remained that Mark was very ill at ease about Henry. Best to keep on alert until he'd made up his mind about his cousin.

The kitchen door swung open and Connie came in, dressed in a pink snowsuit, white boots, and mittens.

"You got dressed all by yourself!" Susan said, delight in her voice. Connie nodded and beamed proudly.

"Well, you're becoming my big little girl," Susan said.

"Can I go out and play in the snow?" Connie asked.

"Of course you can," Susan said. "Go right ahead."

Connie turned to leave; Mark called after her. "Hey, wait!"

Connie stopped, looking confused. "What?"

"How'd you like to play with me?" Mark asked.

"Uh, okay." Connie grinned shyly. "I'm going to the playground. I'll see you there."

"No," Mark said, quicker than he'd meant to. Connie scowled.

"What is it, Mark?" Susan asked over the sound of the raw eggs sizzling on a hot skillet.

Mark looked at his aunt, trying to be as casual as he could. "Well, I was wondering if Connie would wait for me, that's all."

"Why can't she go ahead?" Susan asked.

"Well, uh…" Mark had to think fast. "I don't really know how to get to the playground."

"It's easy," Connie said. "You just go down the driveway and make a left, and you'll see it."

"Well, I'd still like to walk there with you," Mark said. "I mean, I won't be too long. I just need to eat breakfast and throw on my boots and a warm jacket."

Susan gave her nephew another funny look, then turned to Connie. "Would you be all right waiting, Connie?" she asked.

Connie pouted. "But I'm getting hot," she said.

"You could go play outside until I'm ready," Mark suggested. Connie smiled warmly at Mark. "Okay," she said, "I'll see you outside."

"Great," Susan said. Mark waved at her and then glanced back at Susan, hoping the whole scene hadn't appeared too strange. Susan looked back at him. She cocked her head slightly to the side, puzzled. "What is it, Mark?" she asked.

Mark shrugged. "Nothing, really. I just feel like I spend a lot of time with Henry, and Connie gets ignored a little much. I thought she'd like it if I spent some time with her, too."

Susan smiled. "That's very sweet of you."

After breakfast, Mark put on some boots and a warm jacket, then went outside. Connie was lying on her back in the snow, making snow angels. Mark marveled as he stepped into the snow and his foot sank ten inches. _What amazing stuff_, he thought. _Never seen it before at all, let alone this much of it_.

"Ready?" Connie asked, getting up.

"Sure," Mark said.

They started down the driveway and out into the road. The road had been plowed, but it was still quite narrow. A large, long mound of piled-up, plowed snow lined either side of the road. There wasn't much room for two cars to pass; that meant precious little room left for pedestrians.

Thinking about this, Mark asked, "What happens if a car comes?"

"We do this." Connie scrambled over one of the mounds of snow; in just a few seconds' time, she was safely out of the way. "Okay, gotcha," Mark smiled.

They continued down the road until the playground came into view. It had never occurred to Mark that kids would want to play in a playground after it had snowed, but here they were. Mark could see kids everywhere; on the swings and monkey bars, throwing snowballs and generally just enjoying themselves. Mark looked around the playground- Henry was not to be seen.


	6. Chapter 6- Alice Davenport

**Chapter VI- Alice Davenport**

* * *

Connie played in the playground all morning. After a while, a bunch of her friends showed up, and the sunny winter air warmed with their laughter. The current game was to build a snowman near the swings, then get on the swing and see if you could swing close enough to kick his head off.

Not far away, Mark sat on a bench and watched. The sun shone down, warming Mark as he sat guard duty. He was tired and his eyes felt scratchy; it was like there were tiny grains of sand behind his eyelids. I definitely should have gone to bed earlier last night, Mark thought as he yawned. He wished he could take a nap, but this Maine cold took some real getting used to. He kept having the odd yet recurring thought that he might freeze and die if he fell asleep out here. It didn't seem to happen much to people from Maine, but that's probably because they knew better than to be caught unawares. Mark didn't have that, being from Arizona. And there was still Henry's threat the night before- he was not a boy to be trifled with, friend or no friend. Mark wasn't going to let Connie out of his sight just yet.

He was so intent on watching her that he didn't notice Alice Davenport's approach until she was practically right in front of the bench.

"Hello, Mark."

Mark looked up, surprised. Alice was wearing a large navy-blue parka and white earmuffs. He suddenly remembered that at his last appointment he'd agreed to meet with her again.

"Susan said you'd be here," Davenport said. "I guess you forgot about our appointment."

Mark looked away, feeling a little guilt and a lot of unease. He didn't like this. She'd actually come and found him! What was she going to do now- try to have a session right here in the playground?

"Did you forget?" Davenport asked.

In a way, Mark had forgotten. But there were reasons for it; for one, he'd been focused more on keeping watch over Connie. And there was at least one other reason.

"Maybe I just didn't feel like talking," Mark said.

"May I join you?" Davenport asked.

Mark looked up, not managing to conceal how surprised he was. The truth was he didn't want her to join him, but knew it would be rude to say so.

Davenport swept some snow off the bench and sat down. Mark stared out at the playground; he could tell Davenport was still looking at him.

"Talking helps, Mark," she said. "It helped last time, didn't it?"

Last time, Mark thought, was a while ago, and not just in passed time. A lot had happened since then; Henry was no ordinary kid, and Mark was all kinds of confused about what to do about it. It was so weird. Henry had shown again and again that he liked doing terrible things. He was mean, and it rarely had anything to do with someone having actually wronged him. All that was needed was a perceived wrong; a sense on Henry's part of having been slighted.

But Henry did seem serious when he'd offered Mark his friendship. And he'd struck a chord in Mark at the strangest moment possible. Out there by the road, with the chaos left by Mr. Highway behind them amidst the falling snow, Henry had asked Mark if he'd felt helpless when his mother died. Mark had, and admitted as much to Henry. There'd been something else, though; something that was difficult to place. Mark hadn't been comfortable mentioning it to his cousin then… but when his mother had died, Mark hadn't just been sad, though the memory of that sadness hurt still. Somewhere, deeper inside than even the sadness went, Mark had been furious. Furious with himself for failing to save his mother, furious at the doctors for not being able to save her. Furious at the simple fact that his mother had fallen ill and died, and there hadn't been a damn thing Mark could do about it. Mark had been astounded when Henry guessed so close to the Mark; he'd even asked if Mark had felt powerless. Henry had gotten so close to the truth it was scary.

There was so much on Mark's mind; and so much of it, he could not talk about.

Or could he?

Mark turned and looked at Davenport. "You're a doctor," he said slowly. "You know things."

"Well, some things," she said. "I can't do brain surgery."

"But you know about people," Mark said.

"Let's suffice it to say that it's an area I'm more comfortable with," Davenport allowed.

"Do you think it's evil to want power?"

Davenport looked surprised for a moment, then puzzled. "What do you mean by that, Mark?"

Mark frowned, trying to figure out how best to phrase the question. He wasn't even sure what words he was looking for; he knew what he wanted to say, but the words weren't coming.

"I mean when someone does things on purpose, things that hurt other people. But it meant he was in charge. Is that evil?"

Davenport then said something that surprised Mark. "Evil's a word I don't have much time for."

Mark looked at her. "What do you mean?"

"I believe it's what people say when they've given up trying to understand someone," Davenport said. "There's a reason for everything, Mark. That includes people's behavior- certainly, wanting to have power over things, to be in charge just like you said. Any time someone wants that- wants anything- there's a reason. Unfortunately, the reason can be hard to find sometimes."

"But what if there isn't a reason?" Mark insisted. "What if something just _is_?"

"You asked me if wanting power was evil, and I said there's a reason anytime someone wants that. But it would seem to me that if something just is, then it must have always been that way," Davenport said. "You see? If it happens, then there's a cause. But if it simply exists, then it has to exist from the start. Let me ask you a question, Mark- do you believe someone can be born evil?"

Mark wasn't certain; it didn't seem like that was possible. He couldn't think of anything Wallace or Susan would have done that would have made Henry anything you could call evil. And what was evil, really? Mark was having doubts about that, too. Maybe Henry just naturally saw the world a different way. He shook his head, confused. Davenport was watching him again.

"I have another question," Davenport said. "Do you think you're evil? Because you let your mother die? Do you think it makes you evil to wish you could have had the power to prevent it?"

Mark sighed, staring out at the playground. There were a bunch of perfectly normal, definitely-not-evil-by-any-definition kids playing tag in the snow. Mark was very confused about things right now, and it was only made more so by the fact that he wasn't really talking about himself. How could he explain that?

"It's not true, Davenport said gently. "You didn't let your mother die, and every boy would want to be able to save his mother. Neither of those things is wrong, Mark. You're not evil."

Mark sighed; this was only somewhat helpful. In many ways, it was just raising more questions than it answered. "Okay," Mark said, "but wait. Just listen for a second. What if there was this boy?"

"A boy about your age?" Davenport asked.

Mark nodded. "Suppose he did these terrible things… because he wanted to be in charge of things, all the time. And because he liked doing them. Would you say he was evil?"

Davenport gazed off into the bright blue, cloudless sky for a few moments, then shook her head. "I'm sorry, Mark," she said, "but I simply do not believe in evil."

Mark had lost patience; this wasn't getting him anywhere. He might be just as well off talking to Henry- at least Henry was his own age. And Henry was offering him something, not making some strange effort to 'understand' him.

Mark got up and faced Davenport. "So you don't believe in evil?"

Alice Davenport shook her head.

Mark tried one more time. "Not even if someone wants to never, ever be powerless again? That wouldn't make someone evil?"

Davenport shook her head a second time.

"Well… maybe you should," Mark said. Before Davenport could reply, he jogged off through the snow toward Connie.

"Hey, Connie," he shouted. "It's lunchtime. Come on, we better go."

As Connie pouted and Mark made his way over to get her to join him, he glanced out of the corner of his eye toward Alice Davenport. She was still sitting on the bench, watching him with a concerned look on her face.

Unknown to either of them, a slim, blonde-haired boy was crouched on a snowy hill in the woods nearby. He'd been there for close to an hour, pausing at one point to smoke a cigarette. Other than that, he hadn't moved so much as once; it was his eyes, only his eyes, that had shifted on occasion. The boy smiled; sound carried remarkably well in the snow. In his tan winter jacket and white pants, he was nearly invisible at a distance- his choice of colour in winter clothing this morning was no coincidence for that very reason. As Mark finally got Connie and left, and Alice Davenport eventually got up and left the park, the blonde boy stared after them, watching all three people with coldly appraising eyes.

When Mark got home, the phone was ringing. Mark hurried into the living room and picked up the wireless handset on the end table.

"Hello?"

For a split second, all he heard was distant static. Then a faraway voice said, "Hello? Wallace?"

"Dad!" Mark exclaimed, recognizing the voice now. The line must be very distant indeed; his voice hardly resembled Uncle Wallace's. But Mark didn't care; he hadn't heard from his dad since he'd last seen him, when they'd said goodbye out in the driveway of Wallace and Susan's house. This was the best thing he'd happen all day.

"Mark!" Jack Evans sounded just as delighted to hear from his son as Mark was to hear from him. "I'm calling from Hong Kong."

"Great, Dad. How's everything going?"

Mark could almost see his dad shrug. "Ah, it's going. You don't fly to the other side of the world to work on a simple business deal. I've been running around like mad; these guys in Hong Kong think there's forty-eight hours in the day. But, I wanted to call and say hello to everyone. You having a good time there?"

Mark had to think about that one a second. Was he?

Well, his aunt and uncle were great, and so was Connie. They were all being so nice to him, so welcoming. Even Henry was, albeit in his own way... a way that was unlike anyone else Mark had ever met. Mark's stomach lurched when he thought again of the bridge, of Mr. Highway… and of Henry raising his arms and shouting joyously above the scream of tires and the crash of shattering glass.

"Mark?"

Mark started; he'd almost forgotten he was still on the phone. Well, there was no way he was gonna be able to explain what Henry was up to, and even then Mark wasn't sure he wanted to. Henry seemed sure he had something to offer Mark, as bizarre as that seemed. What if Mark tried to rat Henry out, and then Henry turned out to be right?

What if?

Finally, Mark made up his mind. He was having a good time, he decided; and Henry he would deal with soon enough. If the two ultimately couldn't get along, Mark would let his dad know. But for now he'd keep certain things between himself and his cousin.

Making sure to put the smile into his voice, Mark said, "Yeah! Everything's going great over here, Dad."

"Having any fun?"

"Lots of fun," Mark replied, and he could almost see his father smile.

"Glad to hear it," Jack said. "So, you like it there?"

"Sure do," Mark said, forgetting his father couldn't see him nod.

Connie, fighting in the hallway with her snowsuit, fell over. "Darn!" she said, about the fiercest swear word she knew.

Looking through the square panes of glass in the living room windows, Mark saw Henry coming up the front drive, bounding onto the porch. He was wearing black leather gloves, a tan felt jacket and white pants… all of which looked very expensive. Mark wondered briefly what kind of salary Henry's dad made in a year; whatever it was, it wasn't a small number.

"That's great, Mark. That's really great." Jack sounded very pleased, and he was. What better relief was there than knowing he had, indeed, left his son in good hands?

Then Jack unknowingly asked the tough question: "You and Henry getting along?"

Mark answered that one just as Henry started to come in the door. He said simply, "Yeah, we are. Everybody's been really nice to me here. Been having a good time."

"Great, Mark, I'm glad to hear that. Is Henry around, by the way? If you wouldn't mind, I'd like to say hi to him while I'm calling."

Mark glanced into the entrance hallway; Henry, standing behind Connie as she fought with one of her boots, was grinning and holding up a pack of cigarettes. See why I was late? The look said. Mark waved back and made a cutting motion with his eyes, looking at Connie. Henry shrugged and pocketed the pack of cigarettes, stopping to help Connie get her boots off.

Mark stared, again briefly forgetting his dad was on the line. Never had he seen Henry do that before.

Henry looked up and met his eyes, grinning impishly again. He seemed to have completely anticipated Mark's surprise.

"Yeah," Mark finally managed to say, "Henry just got back, actually. You wanna talk to him now?"

"Sure, Mark, if that's all right."

"Yeah, Dad," Mark said, "No problem. Great to hear from you."

"Good to know you're doing great out there, Mark. I'll be back soon."

Henry took the phone a few moments later; he spoke with Jack only briefly, but was as polite and friendly as ever. He more or less echoed Mark's comments, and did seem genuinely pleased to tell Jack he and Mark were getting along. After hanging up, Henry joined his cousin in helping Connie out of her snowsuit. Once Connie had been extracted from the fluffy pink mess and had happily bounded off to watch TV for a while, Mark turned to Henry, a look of shock on his face.

"What was that?" Mark asked, amazed.

Henry stared back with a smirk on his face, looking so smug it was ridiculous. "I'm being nice to my sister, Mark. Wasn't that your idea?"

Then he reached into his pocket, holding up the pack of cigarettes again. "How 'bout it, Mark?"

Mark hesitated; he wasn't quite sure what to say.

"My parents went out to do some grocery shopping; they'll be back in a little while," Henry said, somehow anticipating Mark's very question. "There's time."

Mark glanced back towards the TV room; in Wallace and Susan's house, there seemed enough rooms to set aside one for everything. One of the top-floor bedrooms was even being converted into a library. But Mark's mind wasn't on Wallace's project for the house; it was on Connie, and leaving her alone if he went out. Henry seemed to pose no threat to her, certainly not now… but they'd still be leaving a little girl alone in an awfully big house.

"What about Connie?" Mark asked.

Henry looked at his cousin pityingly. "Always worrying, Mark. You're always _worrying_."

Mark was close to giving in. He didn't want to seem like some kind of killjoy, and Henry did seem to have taken his advice, even if only in a small way. Once Henry mentioned that Connie's favourite show, "Parks' Town", would be on for the next half-hour, Mark relented.

"Connie!" Henry called as they headed for the back door, "We're going outside; be back in a few minutes!"

"Okay!" Connie chirped, hardly listening.

Reaching for the brass handle of the door to the back porch, Henry looked at Mark and smiled. "See?" he said quietly, "Nothing to worry about." Mark just shrugged, almost reluctant to admit Henry had been so accurate. Henry just smiled, as if he'd expected that too.

Out on the back porch, Henry wasted no time. He plopped down on the wood deck, letting his feet hang over the solid foot of snow covering the garden that would be there come spring. Henry then pulled out his lighter and cigarettes, casually holding one out for Mark as he lit up his own.

"Man," Mark said, "if your parents find us out here, they're gonna kill us."

"So what?" Henry shrugged, unconcerned. "Dying's just another thing, we all do it. No big deal." But when Henry saw the concerned look on Mark's face, he sighed. "I've done this before, Mark," he said, a little impatiently. "It'll be _fine_."

Finally, Mark took the cigarette. Trying to affect Henry's casual manner, he calmly placed the cigarette between his lips and leaned over when Henry held up the lighter.

"Just take a drag, nice and easy," Henry said. "And don't gag."

Henry remembered, then, Mark's thoroughly graceless coughing fit from last time. Mark winced a little; he remembered that, too. But he did as Henry suggested, and though the smoke still burned at him and made him want to cough, Mark kept it down to a few light coughs this time. He smiled a little, in spite of himself- progress.

For most of that half-hour Connie's show was on, the two boys sat on the back porch, smoking their cigarettes and talking quietly. It amazed Mark they were still able to do this, after all that had happened. Mark felt a little thrill at defying the rules like this; smoking a cigarette was kind of exciting, if only because you weren't allowed to at his and Henry's age. And this was a kind of rebellious fun Mark could almost appreciate; it was a world apart from tossing Mr. Highway off the bridge. It didn't hurt anybody.

Mark sat there in the back porch, watching the sun shine off the snow as morning gradually started giving way to afternoon. He took a drag off the cigarette, smiling at the fact that he was already doing a better job of acting as casual as Henry always did about it. There were some aspects of Henry that Mark liked, maybe even admired; Henry saw the rules as something that did not necessarily rule his life. To him, having fun and doing what you wanted to do was more important. He was afraid of nothing, it seemed; Mark wondered what Henry was like at school. He had to be as unusual a personality there as he was at home.

Mark still wasn't at all sure what to do or think about Henry; his cousin was not an easy person to figure out. But he was offering Mark his friendship, even after their disagreements. He wasn't very nice… or maybe he just didn't know how to be. But if Henry had something to teach Mark, it would surely work both ways. Maybe Mark could, if nothing else, show his cousin the benefit of being nice to people sometimes. It was much, much better than simply not caring and letting everybody hate you.

But what if Henry couldn't do that? Not just wouldn't, but _couldn't_? What if being cold and careless underneath his warm, well-mannered exterior was just a part of who Henry was?

Mark shook his head, so wrapped up in his own thoughts he all but forgot Henry was there. And not just there, but watching him curiously, and intently. Mark knew Henry was odd, and sometimes worse than just odd. But Mark _needed_ a friend right now, and Henry seemed to at least be sincere in offering to be that friend. And that had to count for something.


	7. Chapter 7- Lamenting Richard

**Chapter VII- Lamenting Richard**

* * *

Before long Henry's parents came home; even before that, Henry and Mark had stubbed out their cigarettes and headed inside. Henry, speaking quietly and with that knowing, confident smirk, noted that it would be better if they were not found on the back porch smoking cigarettes at the tender age of twelve years old. Mark himself still didn't really see the point of it- he didn't like the burning sensation it brought to his lungs and throat. But it was one of Henry's more harmless past-times. Maybe, Mark thought, it would actually be better to encourage Henry in that kind of behavior… so then there might be fewer Mr. Highways.

Henry's parents soon had lunch on the table, and the three younger members of the Evans family joined them in the dining room, sitting at the long, rectangular table.

Mark sat across the table from Henry; for right now at least, he still wanted a little distance between him and his cousin. Things were simpler when he sat next to Connie; she was just a perfectly normal kid. She didn't at all have that look Henry did; like Henry might find it fun to kill somebody's dog or cat, just to hear its last cry of pain.

Mark appreciated that Henry wanted to be friends… but that didn't change the fact that Henry could be a scary kid. He didn't seem like he'd ever bothered learning how to be nice to people.

"So, what's going on tonight?" Henry asked as they ate cold cuts with potato salad and cole slaw.

"Well, not much for tonight- but in two days I'm taking your mom out to dinner," Wallace said. "You think you characters can babysit yourselves and not get into too much trouble?"

"Sire, Dad," Henry replied with a smile.

"Oh, boy!" Connie said. "It'll be fun!"

Mark felt his stomach start to knot up. The thought of being alone in the house with Connie was one thing; having Henry added into it was another. Henry didn't at all seem like the type you'd want alone with you in the dark. Who knew what Henry might try to do? From the way Henry talked and acted, he didn't at all seem to have the typical boy's fear of the dark.

Henry seemed more like the type who embraced the dark… and maybe even came out of it.

Mark suddenly felt very cold. He shivered, involuntarily, but just shrugged when Henry gave him an odd look. Definitely not a thought to tell Henry just yet- if ever.

But Henry seemed like he already knew. His mouth twitched upward, hinting at that knowing smile.

"Can I stay up late and watch 'Monsterpiece Theater'?" Connie asked eagerly.

"No," Henry said flatly.

"Why not?" Connie pouted.

"Because it might warp your impressionable little brain," Henry said simply.

If the thought hadn't been so scary, it might have been funny; here Henry was, warning his sister about how a TV show might be bad for her, when the thing most capable of doing her harm lived right there in the same house, just down the hall from her room. And Mark was no fool; Henry was smart, very smart, and any harm he did to Connie if he chose would be far more harmful than anything a TV show could do.

And perhaps, much more permanent.

"I don't have to listen to you," Connie fleered. "You're not the boss."

Henry's eyes narrowed; his whole body became suddenly tense. He leaned forward and hissed, "Yes I am, vermin."

Susan's eyes widened. "That's about enough, Henry."

Connie looked at her mother curiously. "What's a vermin?"

"Nevermind, Connie," Wallace said. "It was something Henrys should not have said." Wallace looked pointedly at his son as he said this.

"And something he won't say again," Susan added, looking straight at Henry as well.

Henry blinked; for just a moment, he looked startled somehow. Then Mark watched him shift not just his expression, the look in his eyes; somehow in just a second's time, Henry's whole posture changed. Mark watched him turn into a friendly, smiling son once again.

"Oh, Dad, Mom," he said, "guess what? Mark was saying that he might like to move into Richard's room."

Mark's jaw dropped. He hadn't _ever_ said anything like that!

Wallace considered this. "You know, that's not a bad idea," he said.

Mark watched Susan stiffen. In just an instant, he could see that putting Richard's room to any use was a big source of disagreement between Susan and Wallace.

"Darling," Susan said to Wallace, "we've been over this before. You know why we haven't done that already."

"Which is all the more reason why we should be considering it now," Wallace said as gently as he could.

"Mark seems to like it in there," Henry put in, as if to add fuel to the fire.

"But- that's not true-" Mark stuttered, but suddenly he felt a sharp jolt of pain as Henry's foot shot out and kicked him under the table.

"Come on, Mark," Henry said with a sly smile, "Don't lie."

Mark's mouth opened, but no words came out. He was flabbergasted by this latest scheme of Henry's. Why was he doing this? It didn't make any sense. Henry had been saying he wanted to be friends with Mark, but here he was, lying and stirring up trouble just for the fun of it.

At the far end of the table, Susan and Wallace were deep in a discussion that was bordering on becoming a full-blown argument. Mark had a sure feeling that this was just what Henry had been counting on to happen.

"Honey, I really think you should give it some thought," Wallace was saying to his wife. "We can't keep the room like it's been; not forever. It's turning into a museum, and I can't see how that's good for the kids."

Mark could see that Susan was barely keeping it together; she was struggling to maintain control of her emotions. Clenching a napkin tightly in her hand, she stared over at her husband. "I never said it would be forever," she insisted. "I'll change the room when I'm ready." She turned to Mark, who felt both terrible and confused- terribly confused- over having any part in making her feel so bad. It didn't change anything that this was all because of a lie Henry told.

"Mark," Susan said. "There's a nice room on the next floor you can use."

"But Henry's making it up-"

Kick.

Again, Mark turned to see Henry staring innocently back at him, but now with a fiercer look in his eyes.

_Shut up_, the look said. _Just_ _can it and ride this out, if you know what's good for you_.

Regardless, it didn't seem like anyone besides Henry had heard what Mark said. "Listen to me, honey," Wallace said. "If Mark moved in there, it could help. That room needs to be lived in. I'm not saying you should throw any of the toys or other stuff away."

Susan was on the verge of tears. "I really don't want to discuss this right now," she said tightly, indicating she'd said all she had to say on the matter.

But Wallace wouldn't let it go. "I _know_ you don't want to discuss it. But we've got to face it. We can't keep trying to forget about it."

Chair legs scraped the floor as Susan abruptly stood up. She was trembling, visibly fighting back tears. "I _am_ facing it!" she cried. "I face it every day. _You're_ the one who's forgetting."

All eyes were on the Evans elders now, but Mark's eyes drifted back to Henry. The blonde kid had brought a hand to his face, and Mark was the only one who saw.

Henry was smirking.

It was like he was enjoying this; like Henry got a kick out of seeing others in pain. Mark was stunned; he had never seen someone Henry's age act like this before, ever.

Mark considered jumping up and yelling that Henry was at fault here; that he'd been the one who started the whole thing. But just as soon as the idea occurred to Mark, he rejected it. They'd never believe him. Plus, it would infuriate Henry, who no doubt loathed tattle-tales, even if they had a point. Perhaps _especially_ if they had any valid point.

Susan started to walk out of the room. "Please don't walk away from this," Wallace said, rising halfway out of his chair. "Susan, please."

But Susan had left the room, and they could hear her footsteps hurrying up the stairs. It was obvious she wasn't coming back.

"Oh, Christ," Wallace muttered, sitting back down and putting his head in his hands.

For a moment the room was silent. Nobody moved. Mark could hear Susan's footsteps as she reached the second floor and started down the hallway above them. Wallace also looked up; everybody in the dining room knew she was going to Richard's room.

Mark looked around the table. Wallace looked sad, and even Henry had managed to shift his expression to one appropriate for the moment, appearing dismayed himself. Only Connie looked puzzled, as if she still didn't understand what had happened.

"Daddy?" she asked.

Wallace looked over at her. "What is it, honey?"

"What's a vermin?" Connie asked.

Mark felt for Connie; the poor kid was so young and innocent. She really did not understand what was going on. Then Mark looked across the table, curious to see how Henry had reacted to the question. Henry again had covered his mouth with his hand. He looked like he was holding back laughter again.

Susan pushed open the door to Richard's room and stepped inside. She felt a tear roll out of her eye and down her cheek. It was sad to think about, but she'd realised long ago that Wallace would never understand the way she felt. It hurt to think that he didn't feel the same way, but they were, after all, two different people. Everyone had a different way of dealing with grief. Wallace internalized it, compartmentalized it and sectioned it off in his brain. As an Air Force PJ for eight years, he'd had to. Sometimes the people you went out to rescue- or the ones who went out to rescue them with you- didn't come back. In his own way, Susan was sure Wallace felt the pain of Richard's loss as deeply as she did. He just dealt with the pain differently.

Susan sat down on the bed and gazed around the room. Standing on the night table was a small toy mirror. Richard had gotten it on his second birthday. The frame was the face of Donald Duck. Susan picked up the frame, gazing into the mirror silently.

Then she saw something that took her by surprise. In the mirror's reflection, Susan was startled to see Henry standing in the doorway. She could tell that he wasn't aware she was looking at him, or that she even knew he was in the room. On his face was the oddest smile.

It was almost contemptuous.

Almost a smirk.

Startled to see such a look on her son's face, Susan spun around. Henry looked surprised for a moment. Then the startled look passed, so quickly it was like it had never been there. Now the look on Henry's face was one of the deepest sympathy. So fleeting had been the look of surprise- and the one of contempt- that Susan could only assume she'd been mistaken about the earlier look on Henry's face.

Her son stepped towards her, putting his hand on her shoulder. "Don't cry, Mom," he said softly. "Don't cry."

_He's such a dear boy_, Susan thought. _So sweet and thoughtful_. At times almost more so than her husband. Almost too good to be true, Susan sometimes would say of Henry. But this was one time she was glad it was true. Susan took Henry's hand and pressed it against her damp cheek. "Thank you, Henry," she whispered. "Thank you for understanding."

And Henry looked down at his mother; for a moment, while she looked up at him, the expression of sympathy was there. But just as soon as he knew she wouldn't be looking up again all that soon, Henry looked down at his mother with an expression that was almost perfectly blank, a very dark something dancing behind the look of bemused contempt that again appeared in his eyes.


	8. Chapter 8- After Dinner

**Chapter VIII- After Dinner**

* * *

Mark was left deeply unsettled by Henry's actions at lunch; he made a point of avoiding Henry for the rest of the day. Henry didn't much seem to mind; whenever Mark saw him, his cousin seemed preoccupied with thoughts and tasks of his own. When Henry set about the business of doing something, he was very no-nonsense about it. All afternoon, Mark watched from Henry's room as his cousin came and went from the shed out in the backyard. What fascination it held for Henry, Mark wasn't sure. But it was obvious his cousin used it as a workshed of some kind; Mark had seen that when he'd gone in there to meet Mr. Highway.

Dinner came and went pretty quietly; the Wallace elders managed to patch up the difficulties of earlier in the day, and the final meal of the day was conducted with a pointed refusal to acknowledge that anything had gone wrong earlier in the day. Everyone already knew, so there was no point in bringing it up.

After dinner, though, Mark decided he'd about had enough. He didn't like what Henry had done earlier, and he felt like he'd done something wrong by not telling anyone about it. He didn't like feeling as if he was Henry's accomplice; not if Henry was going to do these things and tell him nothing about it.

When Mark got upstairs, Henry was at his desk, humming to himself and looking at a model submarine in his hands. It looked hand-carved, expensive- the stand it normally held it, also made of wood, read _HMS Vanguard_.

Mark decided to take a leaf out of Henry's own book. He would not be hesitant, he would not be subtle. He would just storm right in and let Henry know just how displeased he really was.

Henry was still sitting at his desk, pausing a moment to switch on his desk lamp, when Mark strode rapidly into the room. Henry turned, smiling a little in greeting. "Oh, hey, Mark."

But Mark wasn't in a mood for casual greetings. He grabbed Henry, who squawked in surprise as he was hauled up from the desk, the model submarine dropping from his hands. For just an instant, Mark wasn't sure what he was going to do. He had a feeling his cousin was stronger than him, had a better idea of proper hand-to-hand fighting. But Mark still held the element of surprise, and was determined not to waste it.

Recalling some action movie he'd seen once- or something- Mark swiftly brought up his left knee, right between Henry's legs.

"Oof!" Henry gasped, and Mark dropped him. Henry collapsed to his knees, doubled over and grimacing in pain. But after a moment, he startled Mark by starting to laugh.

"It… _ah_! It feels… good… Mark." Henry managed to force the words out; Mark stared down at his cousin, stunned. Was Henry absolutely crazy? Did he actually _like_ getting hit like this?

About a full thirty seconds passed before Mark spoke. Still angry, he hissed, "That was real mean, what you did at lunch. Don't you dare do those things; not without telling me first!"

Henry just laughed again, that strange sound of a boy clearly in pain but somehow liking it. "I guess I deserved that," Henry said, struggling back to his feet.

Mark just tossed his head as if to snap at his ear, looking at Henry with annoyance and contempt. "Yeah, you did," Mark hissed, and Henry grinned.

Pain suddenly exploded in Mark's lower half; with a startled grunt he dropped to the floor, painfully landing on one of his elbows. Agony rolled up and down Mark's stomach, and he curled up into a fetal position without even thinking about it. _Hey, the pain seemed to be saying, how ya doin'? I'm gonna be hanging around for about a good five minutes at least; that's the big show. But I'll be around in some form for the next half hour, that much at least. How's that sound? Pretty darned bad? Great!_

Above him, through the haze of pain rolling around in his balls, Mark could hear Henry laughing. He was still bent over slightly, grimacing a little at the pain Mark had caused him, but was vastly amused at the return fire he'd given his cousin. "You didn't know I could do that, did you, Mark?" Henry all but crowed. "Ha ha ha! Wrong. You don't wanna fuck with me, Mark. Ever."

Mark looked up; Henry still looked amused, even sounded like it- but an edge of steel had come into his voice at those last words. Henry meant what he said at these moments.

After a while of sitting there on the hardwood floor, gasping like a fish as waves of pain hit him, Mark finally said, "Help me up."

Henry laughed. "Why?"

"We're supposed to be friends!" Mark gasped.

"And? You just kneed me in my special place! My tender bits!" Henry said with mock indignance.

"Well," Mark managed to force out, still curled up on the floor, "We're even now, right?"

Henry folded his arms, considering this. Finally, he reached down and helped Mark stand, walking him over to the second bed on the other side of the room. Henry flopped down on his own, still shaking his head at Mark and laughing. "You really didn't know I could do that, huh?"

"Where'd you learn that?" Mark asked, once he'd recovered enough to talk normally.

Henry shrugged. "At school. Some of the bigger kids wanna mess with me at school, Mark. I'm faster than they are."

Mark sighed, staring up at the ceiling, grateful the pain was starting to fade. "Obviously," Mark said, and Henry chuckled.

The heat of the moment eventually passed, as did the pain Mark and Henry managed to cause one another. Mark was still startled by the fact that Henry seemed to not only enjoy seeing others in pain, but even to feel pain being done to himself. He asked Henry about it, but the boy just shrugged. "I like it," he said, almost in a voice that said he didn't himself understand why.

Mark persisted, asking Henry about it, but Henry just smiled and shrugged. "I'll show you what I see sometime, Mark. Not today, though."

Finally, Mark gave up, and conversation shifted to other things. Henry talked about tanks and artillery, of the Minuteman III missile and the Trident missiles carried by nuclear submarines of the United States and Britain; missiles that carried warheads that, if used in enough numbers, could destroy civilization around the world.

Henry's eyes grew bright as he talked of the damage those weapons could cause, of the ability they gave a few select men to destroy entire cities, to kill millions at the turn of a key. For just an instant Henry's voice took on a hint of a savage, twisted greed- of an insatiable hunger to one day hold that power for himself. Mark shivered in spite of himself, and he went to sleep that night thankful he'd chosen, so far anyway, to remain Henry's friend.

Henry Evans, more and more, seemed like a boy who made a very bitter enemy.

But not for very long.


	9. Chapter 9- The Lake

**Chapter IX- The Lake**

* * *

Mark opened his eyes. He was lying on the bed in a room filled with light. An emerald green wool blanket covered him. For a moment, Mark wondered where Henry was, and then with a surge of irritation realised Henry had probably just gotten up earlier, and left Mark where he was. Again.

Then it all came back to him in a rush. Henry causing that bitter argument between Susan and Wallace at lunch yesterday, and Mark rushing upstairs to show Henry what he thought of that after dinner. Then Mark remembered how Henry had almost seemed to enjoy being in pain, and had recovered with surprising swiftness to inflict even greater pain on Mark.

Mark remembered being thankful he wasn't Henry's enemy.

But he swiftly got up, resolving as he headed for the bathroom that however dangerous Henry might be, Mark would not live in fear of him. He was not going to turn tail and run just because Henry was a swift sucker-puncher. Or kicker.

Making his way down the hall after brushing his teeth, Mark noticed Connie's room was also empty.

Suddenly Mark felt very alarmed. A sudden panic gripped him; where was she?

Mark was a moment from dashing out of the room when he heard a young girl's voice coming from outside. Mark stepped to the window at the end of the hall, looking down outside. Connie was wearing her pink snowsuit and talking cheerfully to herself as she built a snowman in the backyard.

Mark smiled to himself, feeling a wave of relief. Connie was all right, for now at least.

A little while later, Mark went down the stairs, pulling on a blue sweater as he went. He intended to grab a quick bite of breakfast and then go outside; the pretext of helping Connie with her snowman sounded convenient. Mark got to the bottom of the stairs and started for the kitchen; he thought he could hear voices. Strained, emotional voices.

Through the doorway to the kitchen Mark could see Wallace with his arm around Susan. Susan's head was bent, and her voice was sad.

"I can't explain it," Susan was saying.

"Is it Richard's room?" Wallace asked gently.

"That's part of it."

"Look, I don't care about the room," Wallace said. "If it helps you somehow to leave it the way it is, that's fine."

Susan looked up at her husband. "Are you sure?"

"Yes," Wallace said. "But there's more to this than that. You've got to stop blaming yourself for Richard's death. It wasn't your fault."

"But I left him alone in the tub," Susan said, sounding pained.

"In six inches of water," Wallace said. "It was a freak accident. He was sitting there in the tub and the phone rang. You did what anyone would have done. You told yourself no two-year-old could possibly drown in six inches of water, and then you went to answer the phone. I would have done the same thing."

"But you didn't," Susan said. "I did."

"It was a freak accident," Wallace repeated. "Honey, you can't go through life blaming yourself."

"I do," Susan said. "No matter how I try to forgive myself or rationalize it, I still do. I just can't forgive myself for doing it."

"You've got to," Wallace said, firmly but gently. "Look what it's doing to us. We can't even have lunch on a weekend without risking some kind of fight in front of the kids. It's not right for you, or for them."

"I know," Susan said, leaning into him and pressing her forehead against his shoulder. "I'm sorry, I really am. I don't mean to be like this. I don't meant to push you away… It's just so difficult."

"I know it is." Wallace slid his arms around her and looked up at the kitchen clock. "Sweetheart, I have to go."

"You sure?" Susan grabbed the sweater he was wearing and held it tight.

"You know I wouldn't go if I didn't have to," Wallace said, giving his wife a hug. "I love you."

"I love you," Susan replied, her voice a strained whisper.

From down the hall, Mark watched Wallace turn and leave. Six inches of water, he thought. That's what Richard drowned in. He tried to imagine what a two-year-old looked like. They weren't really babies anymore; people called them toddlers instead. They walked pretty certainly, and had almost complete control of their bodies. Mark had heard stories about how little water it took to drown in- and how short a height it took to fall and be killed when you hit the ground. Maybe a baby could drown in six inches of water; a baby would have a hard time pushing itself back up to a sitting position.

But a toddler?

_Henry._

Mark tried to shake the thought from his mind. It was a terrible, awful thought; but it wouldn't go. And somehow, it also seemed to fit. If there was anyone in the world who could drown a two-year-old that was also their brother... not only do it, but live with themselves afterwards… it was Henry.

Mark walked slowly toward the kitchen, hoping that Susan would have had time to pull herself together. She had turned away and now faced the kitchen sink, her head still bowed. Mark stopped, then made a few steps deliberately louder, to warn her he was on his way.

Susan's head snapped up. She turned and looked at Mark, a smile coming to her lips so quickly it was a little too obvious it was forced.

"Good morning, Mark."

"Good morning."

"Want some breakfast?" Susan asked.

Mark nodded; he probably had some time for that.

"What would you like?"

Mark shrugged, consciously imitating Henry's nonchalant manner. "Whatever's best this morning," Mark said.

Susan laughed, seeming genuinely cheered by the flawless imitation of her son. She set to work making some scrambled eggs, pouring Mark a glass of orange juice as she worked.

Before long, the eggs were ready, and Mark gratefully began to eat while Susan busied herself around the kitchen.

"You sleep okay last night?" Susan asked, and Mark nodded.

"Good. I hope things are all right with you and Henry. If you really do need to move to another room, we can probably arrange something."

Mark thought about that for a moment, but ultimately shook his head. There wasn't any need for that; not really. Henry was Henry, and even if he slept in another room at night, Mark would have to deal with him regardless.

And Henry seemed like the type of boy who almost _owned_ the night. He had no reason to fear the dark because he had embraced it. Mark wanted to know more about that. He thought of Henry's words to him earlier: he was tired of being scared.

Mark just shook his head. "Everything's fine," he said simply.

Susan looked at him curiously. "Are you sure, Mark? You can tell me if there's something you need to say."

Mark paused, uncertain now as to what he should do. _Should I tell her_? Mark wondered, but immediately realised he had no idea where to start. None. How was he supposed to tell Susan who her son Henry was turning out to be, what he was really like?

How, indeed?

"It's about Henry," Mark began cautiously.

"Henry?" Susan seemed confused by that. "You two seem to be getting along all right." She paused, then added, "Well, you can say what you want to- Henry's not in the house."

The second's worth of relief Mark felt was followed quickly by sudden apprehension. "Where is he?"

"He went out with Connie."

Mark quickly went to the window and looked outside. The snowman Connie had been working on was now standing by itself; two pieces of coal for eyes while a short, crooked branch stood in for a nose.

"Out?" Mark said, fighting a rising feeling of panic and not doing so well at it.

"Yes," Susan said. "Actually, Henry was very cute about it. He said they weren't spending enough time together."

Oh, God! Mark thought. His heart began to race.

"I think he's a little jealous that you and Connie-"

Mark raced back over to Susan, cutting her short. "Where'd they go?" he asked desperately.

"The lake a few miles down the road. It freezes over in the winter and people go ice skating there." Susan looked at Mark, puzzled. "Why? What's wrong, Mark?"

Mark couldn't explain; there wasn't time. "Where is the lake? How do I get to it?"

"Go to the end of the driveway and make a left," Susan said. "Follow the road about a hundred yards and then make a right down Chamberlain Lane. You'll see it soon enough."

"Thanks," Mark said, bolting from the kitchen.

"Hold on!" Susan called after him, now genuinely startled. "What's the rush?"

Mark had no time to answer. He had his boots and jacket on in seconds, and moments later was racing outside.

The air was cold, and Mark ran with great plumes of vapor trailing behind him as he panted, running hard through the snow and slush. He quickly found Chamberlain Lane and started down it, soon coming to a path through the woods where the snow had been trampled down hard. A dozen yards ahead of him, three girls in brightly coloured parkas walked along with ice skates thrown over their shoulders.

Mark dashed past them in a big hurry. Ahead, through the bare brown trees, he could see a rise that led to a ridge. With his heart beating wildly, Mark ran up the incline. At the top he halted, catching his breath. Below him there was a wide lake, covered with a sheet of ice that must have gone down for well over two feet below the surface. There must have been a hundred people, mostly kids, skating on it.

Mark strained his eyes for any sight of Henry and Connie, but there were too many kids in pink snowsuits and white hats. It was impossible to tell which one was Connie.

But he had to find her; Mark had to find Connie and warn her before it was too late. He had a horribly certain feeling that he knew what Henry was going to try to do.

"Connie!" Mark shouted, starting to run again, making his way down the hill and towards the lake. "Connieeee!"

His shouts were lost amidst the many voices and laughter below. Mark ran onward, hurrying down the slope towards the ice. As he got closer, the bodies gliding along the ice became clearer, more distinctive. His eyes began to pick out young couples and older boys skating with younger girls.

"Connie!" Mark shouted. The frantic run was exhausting him; he had to stop and rest. Mark staggered over to a tree and leaned up against it, gasping in the chilly air. Where was Connie?

Was he already too late?


	10. Chapter 10- On Thin Ice

**Chapter X- On Thin Ice**

* * *

The lake was long and broad, with a slight bend in the middle. Most of the skaters were to Mark's left. But now, he saw a pair break away from the main crowd; a boy, wearing a black cap, a tan jacket, pale blue winter jeans and silvery-green hockey skates was pulling someone smaller. Someone in a punk snowsuit and a white cap.

They were still too far away for Mark to see their faces, but he knew. He just knew.

"Connie!" Mark shouted at the top of his lungs. "Connie, wait!"

There was no sign she had heard him- or that she even could. The boy- it just had to be Henry- was pulling her with one of his hands while she held on with both of hers. It was as if she was water-skiing. As they left the crowd of skaters, Mark could see that Henry's head was down and his free arm was swinging as he strained to pick up speed.

"Connie!" Mark launched himself off the tree trunk and started running again. The downhill slope became steeper as he veered off the beaten path and crashed through the unbroken snow, blundering through trees and underbrush with one hand over his face to protect himself from the branches slashing at him.

"Eeeeeeeiiii!" Now Mark could hear Connie's screams, a mixture of delight and terror, as Henry raced faster and faster, pulling her towards the bend in the lake. Ahead, a line of tall, old trees prevented Mark from seeing what was on the other side.

"Oof!" Mark crashed through some branches and suddenly found himself flung out onto the ice.

"Hey!"

"Look out!"

"Interference!"

A dozen voices were yelling at Mark all at once. Mark found himself in the middle of a group of about a dozen guys, all of them with hockey sticks. He'd stumbled into a hockey game!"

"Sorry! Really, sorry!" Mark gasped and propelled himself forward on the ice. The soles of his boots slipped and slid, never meant for use on this kind of surface; but slowly, Mark picked up speed.

He had to get around the bend. He had to see what was on the other side.

Far out on the ice, Henry had started swinging through a long, arching curve. Connie was bent at the waist, as if it took all her strength to hold on to her brother's hand.

"Connie, let go!" Mark shouted as he scrambled farther out onto the ice. Now he could see what was out there, what he'd been unable to see earlier; there was a thin wooden barrier painted red and white, warning skaters of thin ice ahead.

Henry was skating in a wide curve towards the barrier. As he started to curve around, Connie sung to the outside of the arc. Suddenly, Henry heaved her forward and let go. Like a slingshot, Connie rocketed forward, straight toward the red and white barrier, her small body wobbling back and forth. Her arms flailed in the air as she tried to keep her balance.

Connie crashed through the barrier and fell forward on her stomach, but kept on sliding. Her arms and legs were splayed out in all directions, but there was nothing to hold onto. Nothing to stop her.

Ahead of Connie, Mark could see how the ice was a dull gray instead of the solid, thick white that preceded it. He could even see a thin layer of water on the surface of the dull gray, thinner ice.

Connie slid toward the gray… and then disappeared.

"Oh, my God! Connie!" Mark screamed. He tried to run faster, but the result was like you'd always see in a cartoon; the faster Mark's legs spun beneath him, the slower he went.

Out beyond the white barrier, Connie's head, still covered by the white cap, bobbed to the surface.

"Connie!" Mark screamed again, and now heads did start to turn his way. Their frenzied, scared tone and persistence was getting attention at last. Now, other skaters began to point at the broken barrier. People started to shout.

"Look! Someone's fallen in!"

"Get help!"

In an instant, the entire crowd had stopped skating and was either racing in Mark's direction, or had halted to watch what was going on. To Mark's surprise, Henry was skating back towards the spot where Connie now bobbed in the freezing water. Henry stopped, bent down, and began to crawl on his stomach over the ice toward his sister.

Now the skaters who were advancing were closing in on the barrier. Once again, Mark was left behind and had to stumble over the ice to catch up. _What is Henry doing_? Mark wondered. Was he really trying to save her?

The skaters had started to venture beyond the barrier. Henry turned his head, looking back over his shoulder at them. "Don't come too close!" he shouted at them. "The ice is breaking!"

Mark saw Connie's head disappear from sight.

Suddenly, Henry's head whipped back toward the hole in the ice, and he crawled right up to the edge, getting just as close as he dared. "I can't find her!" Henry screamed. "I can't find her!"

Mark was still trying to make his way forward; things were made more difficult by a crowd now starting to form, blocking his progress. Suddenly, there were shouts behind him.

"Out of the way!"

"Make way!"

Mark spun around and saw two men skating toward him. One was carrying a long metal ladder, the other a sledgehammer.

Suddenly, there was a loud _crack!_ beneath everyone's feet.

"What was that?" someone shouted.

"The ice!" someone else yelled. "It's cracking!"

"We got too much weight in one place!" the man with the ladder shouted. "Get back, all of you! Get back and spread out!"

The crowd instantly began to back away and spread out. The two men continued, heading out onto the thin ice.

The man with the sledgehammer gave it to the man with the ladder. "It's too thin!" he yelled. "You'll have to go it alone!"

Now the last man continued across the ice toward Henry, carrying both the sledgehammer and the ladder.

_It's taking too long_! Mark thought, still working his way through the watching skaters. Finally, he reached the broken barrier and started through it. Suddenly, a hand landed on Mark's shoulder, halting his forward progress.

Mark turned and saw the man who'd been carrying the sledgehammer.

"I have to help," Mark gasped.

"You can't go out there," the man snapped.

"But she'll drown!"

"So will you."

Out on the ice, the other man had dropped down on his knees and slid the ladder towards Henry. The crowd around Mark had been murmuring, but now it quieted. On the ice, Herny turned and saw the man was on the ladder, crawling toward him.

"She's not there!" Henry shouted.

"Go back!" the man shouted in turn.

"But…"

"Go back along the ladder, _now_!"

Henry started crawling away; the crowd was stunned when they saw Henry was trying to go in the other direction. The man scurried out towards Henry on his hands and knees, though, and taking hold of Henry's collar, threw him back towards the thicker ice. Henry grunted as he landed hard near the ladder, but grabbed onto it and headed back towards the barrier.

Still on his hands and knees, the man with the sledgehammer crawled as close to the broken ice as he could get; just as Henry had, he went as close as he dared.

"What's he doing?" someone near Mark asked.

"Looking for her."

"But she's not there."

"She went under. She could be anywhere."

In the distance, Mark could hear an ambulance siren approaching, His throat felt constricted. His heart beat like mad. _No_, Mark thought desperately. _This can't happen. Not to Connie, not like this_.

Suddenly the man out on the ice grabbed the sledgehammer and swung down hard, White chips of ice flew through the air as the head of the sledgehammer sank in. Tossing the sledgehammer to one side, the man threw himself on his stomach and reached down. His arms disappeared under the ice. A moment later, a white hat appeared. Then he pulled Connie's limp, wet body out.

"He's found her!" someone yelled.

Some of the skaters actually began to cheer. Meanwhile, the man out on the ice bent over Connie and began to give her mouth-to-mouth resuscitation.

"Was she under there too long?" someone near Mark asked.

"Wasn't more than a minute," the man holding Mark said.

"Does that mean she has a chance?" Mark asked, desperate for hope.

"Yes," the man replied, "A chance."

"Emergency Services is here!" someone shouted.

Mark turned and saw a man and woman hurrying toward the edge of the ice, carrying a stretcher and an oxygen tank. The man out on the ice with Connie saw them. He lifted Connie in his arms and, still giving her mouth-to-mouth resuscitation, skated quickly toward the shore.

The crowd watched as the man handed Connie to the Emergency Services people. They quickly strapped her to the stretcher and put the oxygen mask on her, then hurried back down the path they'd followed through the woods.

"They've stopped the CPR," someone said. "They're giving her oxygen. She must be breathing."

Mark felt a weak wave of relief sweep over him. Around him, some people started skating again. Others had had enough excitement for one day and headed for shore.

_Henry_, Mark thought. He looked around and saw a small crowd of people surrounding someone on a rock on the shore. As he walked in that direction, he replayed in his mind what had just happened. Had anyone else seen Henry pulling Connie toward the barrier? Yes, but they'd probably thought it was just two kids fooling around. Even to Mark, Henry's actions were hard to decipher right now. It looked so much as though they were just having fun, as though Henry had simply been pulling Connie along for fun and had simply lost control near the barrier.

Had it been any other kid, Mark would have assumed it was an accident, and given thought to no other possibility.

But it _wasn't _any other kid.

It was _Henry_.

Now Mark knew why Henry had gone back to the hole after Connie had fallen through. The more he thought about it, the more certain he became.

Henry hadn't gone back to save her.

_He'd gone back to watch._

Memories flashed through Mark's mind: the way Henry had stared at the dead dog. The way he'd watched the accident after throwing Mr. Highway off the bridge, raising his arms and shouting in triumph. The way Henry had asked Mark if he'd seen his mother after she'd died. The way he'd said he'd taken a good look at his brother Richard when _he'd_ died.

Henry _liked_ to watch terrible things happen, especially if he had caused them.

He liked to _see_ death.

As Mark neared the small crowd, he could see that Henry was at the centre of it. Someone had thrown a blanket over his shoulders, and someone else was crouching down in front of him and talking. Henry's head was bowed, and he nodded every once in a while.

_What a great actor_, Mark thought. It took all his self-control not to push through the crowd and smash his fist into his cousin's cherubic little face.

Mark stepped closer. Now Henry looked up and spotted him. For a moment the two boys just stared at each other. Mark could almost see the crooked, knowing smile. But it wasn't on Henry's lips.

It was in his eyes.


	11. Chapter 11- Visiting the Hospital

**Chapter XI- Visiting the Hospital**

* * *

Susan had been in the living room. She'd been standing by the piano, looking at the photograph of Richard. He'd been a strong boy for his age, already steady on his feet. How could he how drowned the way he did?

It was a question she'd asked herself almost every day, almost every waking hour, since the terrible thing had happened. There was still no answer; none she had so far come up with seemed to completely fit.

She, Henry, and Richard had been in the house that day. Wallace had taken Connie to the store, and Susan had left Richard sitting up in the tub, playing with his bath toys.

When she came back, he was facedown.

_In six inches of water._

And that left Henry… Susan shook the thought from her mind. No, she mustn't think that. She mustn't. It was an awful, terrible thing to think- and it simply could not be true. Susan hated herself for even considering it. No, Richard's death had been an _accident_, just like Wallace had said.

_In six inches of water._

And then the phone rang. It was Wallace; he'd been in town when someone he knew grabbed him and told him what had happened at the lake. Connie had fallen through the ice while skating, and the Emergency Services people had taken her to the hospital.

From that second on, Susan hadn't stopped moving. She'd grabbed her coat and catapulted herself out of the house. The still close-to-new Grand Voyager the family owned received some of its roughest treatment yet that day; a dead-cold start in the midst of a harsh Maine winter, followed by a frantic ten-minute race to the hospital in nearby Rockbridge. The van had gotten her to the hospital; that was all Susan knew or cared about. Had the Plymouth been twenty years old instead, and broken down halfway to the hospital, Susan would have only taken note of this for an instant. Then she would have walked.

Susan parked in the first space she found at the hospital; she ran across the parking lot, dashed up the stairs, and burst through the front door, her coat flying behind her.

The entire time, all Susan could think of was one thing. _Not again_.

_Oh, please, God, don't let it happen again._

She'd cursed the elevator for its slowness all the way up to the fourth floor, then ran out and flew down the corridor, dodging patients on walkers and in wheelchairs.

Ahead, Wallace stepped out of a room, talking to a doctor in a white coat with a stethoscope hanging around his neck. Hearing the rapid approach of her footsteps, he turned.

For a split second Susan stopped, desperately searching his face for news.

_Oh, please, God, please!_

A small, grim smile appeared on Wallace's face. "She's going to be all right, Susan."

Susan's knees turned to Jell-O. Suddenly weak with relief, she crumpled into her husband's arms.

_Thank God!_

The man who'd stopped Mark from crossing the barrier gave him a ride to the hospital. Mark had explained that he was the cousin of the girl who had almost drowned. The man knew Henry because he had a son the same age, and they'd been on the same soccer team the year before.

The man politely refrained from telling Mark that most of the boys on Henry's team didn't really like him; he was a skilled and determined soccer player, but… cold. He just didn't seem to be able to rub most any of the boys quite the right way.

The man also would have refrained from telling Mark- had the man known this- that his son was absolutely terrified of Henry, who had once held the boy's grapes hostage with a boxcutter, grinning maliciously at the man's son's terrified whimpers, and the desperate, frightened look in his eyes.

What the man did tell Mark was the truth, regardless: he was impressed with Henry today. What some of the boys at school thought of Henry was one thing; what had happened today was quite another. "He was a mighty brave boy," the man said as they pulled into the hospital parking lot.

"Yeah," Mark said, nodding. He wasn't sure what else to say, beyond "If only you knew", and Mark knew that wasn't an option here. Nobody would get it.

By the time Mark got to Connie's room, Wallace, Susan and Henry were already there. Mark assumed that one of those sympathetic people who'd comforted his cousin had brought him to the hospital. He just hoped that Susan and Wallace would be so distracted by what had happened to Connie that they would never think to ask why he and Henry hadn't come together.

The door was open, but Mark knocked lightly anyway. Wallace looked up.

"Come in, Mark," he said.

Mark entered the room. Henry was sitting close to Susan; she had her arm around him. Connie lay in her hospital bed, her eyes closed, fast asleep. Near her a small green monitor emitted bleeping sounds as it tracked her heartbeat.

"She's okay?" Mark asked.

"Yes," Wallace said, "She's going to be fine."

"Great." Mark felt relieved. He sat down in an empty chair in the corner and gazed at Connie. She'd been lucky. Very, very lucky. But he should have been there sooner. He should have never left her alone with Henry like that.

"Mark?"

Mark turned and saw Susan was looking at him.

"Yes?" Mark said.

"You went to the lake, didn't you?"

An apprehensive feeling swept over Mark, but he nodded steadily enough.

"Did you see what happened?"

Mark's lips parted, but he said nothing. He couldn't think of what to say.

"I don't think he got there until later," Henry said.

Mark knew it was the wrong time to say something; or to do something. Susan reached up and smoothed Henry's hair appreciatively. "What you did was very brave. You saved your sister."

Mark watched as Henry smiled, drinking up his mother's adoration. Had he been a cat, he'd have purred like a lawnmower. Mark watched helplessly, knowing this was just the sort of thing Henry lived for.

He was furious with his cousin; Mark wanted to reorganize his cousin's perfect little face. Maybe blood it up a bit.

Hatred, sudden and violent, surged through Mark.

He was startled by the feeling; so much so, in fact, that he had to almost physically restrain himself from jumping up and attacking Henry right then and there.

_Later_, he told himself. _Soon_.

Susan, for her part, felt strangely uncertain about the day's events, and even the nagging question of Henry and his role in things kept coming back. After enough time feeling that strange uncertainty, an odd, implacable feeling of fear, Susan gave up and went back to the hospital a few hours later. Suddenly, in fact, the urge was overwhelming. She just had to go back and be with Connie. She didn't want her daughter to be alone.

_Bleep! Bleep! Bleep_! The only sounds in the dark hospital room came from the heart monitor and the breaths Connie took in her sleep. The only light came from the thin green line on the monitor that jumped with every heartbeat. Susan sat in the corner behind the door, just listening. She knew she had to be there, but she wasn't so sure of why. Strange thoughts ran just below the surface of her consciousness, like fish in a dark sea. She knew they were there, but she couldn't see them.

Or was it that she didn't _want_ to see them?

Suddenly the door cracked open, letting in a shaft of light. Susan almost said something, but she felt a sudden urge to remain quiet and still.

The door opened farther. In the light from the hall, Susan saw Henry step into the room. Without turning on the light, he walked quietly toward his sister's bed.

_What's he doing here_? Susan wondered. _Why hasn't he turned on the light_? Her hands gripped the arms of the chair tightly as she watched Henry walk to the side of the bed and hover silently over his sleeping sister. Then he slowly turned and gazed at the heart monitor. The reflection of the bleeping light was like a line of war paint across Henry's darkened face. He even seemed aware of this himself, silently drawing a line across his face, his eyes tracking the light the monitor was reflecting towards him.

Susan felt very strange about all she was seeing.

_Why is he staring at it like that?_

_What strange fascination does it hold for him?_

Henry's intense stare shifted now and then between the heart monitor and Connie. His pale hands gripped the railing of Connie's bed tightly, and his eyes were bright and intensely alive… but cold. They looked like gleaming black diamonds, able to reflect brightly but cold as the heart of a blizzard.

Suddenly, Susan felt afraid.

"Henry?"

Henry spun around, perhaps a little more quickly than he meant to. Or rather, more quickly than he would have done, had he known beforehand he had an audience. Henry's surprised expression was caught in the light of the lamp Susan had just switched on. For just a moment, only an instant, he looked like a deer caught in the headlights of an oncoming car. But then he quickly recovered his composure, and smiled his most charming, boyish smile.

But the smile disconcerted Susan.

"Mom," Henry said, "I didn't see you."

"Shh, don't wake your sister." Susan brought a finger to her lips and quietly got up. "What are you doing here? I thought you were home with Dad."

Henry turned back to the bed and gently brushed a strand of hair out of Connie's eyes. "I was worried about Connie," he said softly. "Did she wake up yet?"

"She was up for a little while before," Susan said. "She seemed very confused."

"About what?" Henry said, and a sudden shift in his eyes said he'd realised he'd asked the question a shade too quick. It was as if he was worried about something.

Susan reluctantly registered her son's reaction, but responded regardless. "About why she's in the hospital," Susan said. "I don't think she remembers much about what happened."

Was it her imagination… or did Henry's face appear to sag slightly with relief?

"That's good," Henry said, nodding as much to himself as to Susan. "It's probably best if she forgets the whole thing."

Susan watched him closely, a feeling of extreme discomfort percolating just below the surface. "Henry, what did happen at the lake?"

Henry looked puzzled. "I told you, Mom, it was an accident."

"Of course." Susan nodded and forced a slight smile on her face.

Henry's face suddenly became sad. "I know I've always treated her like a bratty little kid sister. But until today… I don't think I realised how much she meant to me."

Susan regarded her son for a moment. She'd seen him act this way before. So sweet, so earnest, even remorseful. Sometimes he had truly seemed too good to be true. Now she found herself starting to wonder. There was the other day when he'd come into Richard's room. Susan remembered well the glimpse she'd gotten of Henry in that little mirror, before Henry knew she'd seen he was there.

It was a glimpse of a different boy.

The same boy she'd just seen slip into the hospital room, believing he was alone.

Was it possible that he was acting? That this was all an act? A slightly sickening sensation threatened to invade Susan, and she chastised herself, finally, for ever letting herself think this way. No, that couldn't be so. She was just imagining things. Henry was her son.

And yet…

"Does Dad know you're here?" Susan asked.

"No, I sneaked out," Henry said. "Guess I should have told him, huh?"

"Yes."

"Well, I better get home before he notices," Henry said. "You coming?"

"In a while," Susan said. "You run along."

Henry turned toward the door. Susan felt the questions still nagging her. It all just didn't add up.

"Henry?" Susan asked.

"Yes, Mom?" He spun around and faced her. Was there something guilty in his movements? Something overly self-conscious? Or was she just imagining it?

Henry gave her an open, innocent look. Susan changed her mind. It couldn't be; no twelve-year-old could be that evil and conniving. It just wasn't possible.

"Never mind," Susan said. "I'll see you back at the house."

Henry nodded, taking one last look at Connie. "Tell her I was here, okay?"

"I will."

Henry smiled and left the room. Susan could hear as Henry headed back down the hall, whistling to himself as he went.

Perhaps a minute later, there was a crashing noise, and two boys cried out down the hall. One voice in surprise, the other in anger. Startled, Susan jumped up and ran to the door, looking around in the hallway.

Springing out from a janitor's closet left open, Mark had tackled Henry while the blonde was on his way back to the elevators. Even at this distance, Susan could see a furious fistfight beginning; Mark, having gained the edge with the element of surprise, was quite literally beating the hell out of Henry.

Crying out in alarm, Susan raced down the hall toward the boys. Neither of them seemed to hear her, or notice she was there.

As she got closer, Susan noticed something very strange.

Henry was getting hit viciously; for some reason Mark was beyond mere anger. He was landing blow after blow, and with one well-placed punch, Henry's nose was spilling blood down his face.

But Henry wasn't fighting back.

Susan sprinted down the hall now, shouting for them to stop. But as she raced to pull Mark off her son, Henry's blue eyes suddenly darted over towards Susan. "No, Mom!" Henry shouted, so suddenly she stopped short. Then, she watched as Henry's eyes flicked back to Mark, who had a fist pulled back and aimed straight at his cousin, his face contorted in fury.

"Go on, Mark!" Henry shouted, his voice strained. "I deserve it!"

Just as suddenly as Mark's anger had come, though, it was gone. The fist he had drawn back fell limply, and Mark rolled off his cousin and lay beside him, both boys panting hard. A nurse, drawn by the noise, raced over towards them, looking between the boys and Susan.

"What happened? For the love of- what _happened_ to these two?"

Susan just stared; she really had no idea. "I'm not too sure."

But it was Henry who answered, coughing and spitting, spraying a fine mist of blood on the floor in front of him as he rose to his feet. "I should've looked out for my sister better," Henry said, his voice laced with bitterness. "Mark was just reminding me of that."

It took well over an hour to get the boys cleaned up, and assess that no serious damage had been done. Henry's nose would be rather delicate for a few days yet, and he'd received many minor and some more significant bruises, while Mark mostly just got a set of sore knuckles. Even so, the boys wandered out of the hospital easily enough, and though they rode home in silence, they sat side-by-side in the second row captain's chairs of the minivan.

Both Susan and the chief nurse-on-duty had tried prodding all manner of answers out of Mark and Henry; neither ended up having much to say. Mark just said, "I was mad," and Henry kept saying it was over the fact that he hadn't protected his sister properly. Susan might have thought the responses strangely rehearsed; but it wasn't that. Instead, Susan wondered if Henry and Mark hadn't had conversations about this before- and perhaps, Mark had today come to feel that Henry was very wrong in ignoring him.

Susan drove back to the house feeling very confused; Henry was rather strong for his age, lean and in excellent shape. He never took anything from anyone; yet tonight he'd let Mark basically beat him up and done nothing about it. The two boys seemed more tired than anything else; in fact, by the time the Grand Voyager was back in the driveway, they were sleeping on each other's shoulders. Susan smiled when she saw that; things couldn't be bad, not if something like that was possible. She woke the boys and got them inside, and got to sleep that night more easily than she'd first expected.


	12. Chapter 12- Making Plans

**Chapter XII- Making Plans**

* * *

It took about two days for Henry to fully heal up again; he spent most of the first day applying small bags of ice to his face, moaning now and then about how he hoped there'd be no permanent damage. "I'm too pretty to die," Henry would say, which brought amusement to both his parents; they could tell when Henry was putting on a show for them.

Mark, after putting a little time into nursing his bruised knuckles, kept to himself for most of the first day back, but remained in the same room as Henry, and talked with him from time to time. Both boys spent time alone, withdrawing into their own worlds and thoughts.

Finally, once it was confirmed Connie would have about a week to spend in the hospital- that much at least, while the doctors made sure she completed a full and proper recovery- Henry talked to Mark after the lights were out, three days after the incident at the lake.

Mark stared up at the ceiling, his hands folded behind his head. His shirt was off; though he still wore wool pajama pants at night, Mark had taken to imitating his cousin and slept with his upper half bare. He had gotten to like doing it, even after trying it only once or twice; just like Henry, Mark found that for some reason, he just liked doing it.

"You have to get comfortable with yourself, Mark," Henry told him seriously when Mark asked about it again. "Look at it this way. If you don't start getting used to having your shirt off now, how will you know how to get the babes to dig you? That's just a couple of years off."

Mark was startled by that comment from Henry; at twelve years old, Mark had barely given the idea of girls- and wanting them to look at his body- had hardly crossed his mind. Henry, as with so many other things, was different.

But tonight, three days after Henry's awful plan nearly succeeded at the lake- and the two managed to somehow patch things up yet again- Henry had something else on his mind. He wanted to show Mark the greatest thing he'd ever seen- something neither of them would ever, ever forget.

He had to make sure Mark was ready first, though. It would do no good if, after all this preparation, Henry ended up having Mark just run off and chicken out on him. It would not do to have Mark go back to Arizona, just the same straight-laced sissy he was before. Not at all.

"Have you ever seen a mansion, Mark?" Henry asked, also staring up at the ceiling, upper half bare, with his hands folded behind his head.

Mark looked over, uncertain. "Yeah, you mean a big, expensive house, right?"

Henry sniggered. "This is a big, expensive house, Mark. Mansions are like castles. You don't see 'em often- but when you do see one, you know what it is."

At that, Mark fell silent briefly. There were people in Arizona with big houses; some of them very big. But they were all new; certainly, new relative to the hundreds upon hundreds of years of history that European immigrants had invested in the new life they'd made in America. Some families living on the East Coast had been there for going on three hundred years. None of Arizona's rich had that kind of history, and there weren't really massive, imposing old estates like the East Coast had.

Finally, Mark shook his head. "I don't think so, not like you have here. Arizona's not as old as Maine."

Henry took that comment with a smile; he seemed to enjoy being reminded of the fact that his home state had older houses, older families- more tradition and a lot more history. Probably those things just made Henry feel that much more superior to the people in states west of the Mississippi River. Henry seemed to like anything that made him feel superior, for any reason.

But after thinking for a few moments, Henry asked, "Would you like to?"

Mark thought about it a moment, but ultimately nodded. "Sure."

Henry smiled. "Tomorrow, we're gonna go on a long walk, Mark. But I know where we'll be going."

"Where's that?" Mark asked, becoming intrigued by his cousin's mysterious talk in spite of his efforts to resist.

Henry just kept that smile, his eyes gleaming in the dark as he realised he had Mark's full attention.

"There's this huge old place, way out on the other side of town. You'll know it's a mansion when you see one, Mark."

"What's it called?"

"Fleetwood Hall."

Mark thought about that for a moment. "Does anyone live there now?"

Henry seemed to hesitate, as if trying to find the best way to explain what he was going to have to say next. "No. My family's actually distantly related to the one that built the place; used to be some of the richest people in all of Maine lived in that house. But nobody's lived there for years."

"Why's that?" Mark asked, curious.

"People think it's… haunted," Henry said. "It's a big, big house. Helen Whitmore was the last member of the family still there, back in the 50's somewhere. She just disappeared one day, and the family had no money to pay the servants, so they all left."

Henry paused again, his voice took on a hint of real interest- more than that, fascination- as he spoke. "They did tours for a while… but then one day, someone died."

Mark gasped a little, in spite of himself. "How- how did that happen?"

Henry stared up at the ceiling, his eyes gleaming in the moonlight. "Nobody knows, Mark. She just left the group at some point. Then, two days later, the cops found her purse. Ripped and bloody. But they never found her."

Mark felt frightened at the idea of it. Vanishing into a massive old house; the way Henry made it sound, this house was huge enough to occupy its own zip code. In truth, Fleetwood Hall was not quite that size… but it was close.

But it was also fascinating. Mark had never known houses could be so interesting; in Arizona, all the houses were newer, and didn't have as much history to them. Somehow, it seemed like the more history a house had to it, the more lives that it had seen come under its roof, the more life the house took on itself.

But this house didn't sound like that. Mark had never heard of a grand mansion that was abandoned, untouched for decades, because people believed it was haunted.

And tours in old houses didn't normally come back one person short.

Putting some of his unease to words, Mark asked, "Do you think it's safe, Henry- I mean, to just go in there?"

Henry shrugged, his pale shoulders moving up and down in one simple movement. "It can be. You just gotta be careful, like with anything else."

"This doesn't sound like anything else."

Henry smiled, looking over across the room at his cousin. "It'll be fine, Mark. I've snuck in there plenty of times; nobody will ever know we were there."

Finally, Mark sighed. His cousin was, when he chose to be, the meanest boy Mark had ever met. The fierce, hateful look Henry would sometimes get in his eyes made Mark wonder if, facing the blonde boy with the blue eyes, even one of Hell's demons might not think twice.

As long as Mark was with Henry, nothing in some moldy old house could touch him.

Right?

"When are we gonna go there?" Mark asked after being silent for a minute or so.

"Tomorrow."


	13. Chapter 13- The Other Side of Town

**Chapter XIII- The Other Side of Town**

* * *

Built in 1909, the largest and most bizzarely-constructed mansion in the northernmost state in New England had been plagued with bad luck and strange occurrences from the start. Fights occurred among the work crews; a foreman was killed by a sheet of falling glass. Even when the initial work was finished, the mansion- soon known for its imposing size and near-priceless grandeur all over the country- the house just seemed… strange.

That strangeness had taken on new form in the Thirties, when Preston Whitmore's granddaughter, Elizabeth, had vanished in the house without trace. Only her doll was recovered, left just where she would keep it, in the grand entrance hall at the front of the house, sitting on one of the decorative, hand-carved wooden chairs.

The male Whitmores after Preston I had never liked the house much; it seemed to make all of them uneasy, in ways few of them could ever explain in words- but all of them felt and knew. The women, on the other hand, were very different. They were drawn to the house, intrigued by it; and no one loved the house more than the woman it was built for; Eleanor Whitmore, Preston Whitmore's wife. Long after her husband's quirky ideas and designs for the house were all satisfied, she continued writing out new additions, new changes- sometimes rearranging whole halls of rooms and designing a whole new building or wing. The many acres of land the Whitmores owned gave the family plenty of room to work with, and Eleanor made good use of it.

The family's falling fortunes after the decline of Preston Whitmore's business empire in the late 1940's didn't slow Eleanor down a bit. Long after her husband's sudden- very sudden- death by falling from the tall clocktower the house featured, Eleanor took to writing out new changes for the house with a vengeance. It became her purpose in life, her obsession. The Whitmore family's immense fortune was gradually spent away as the properties of the family fell into neglect, business obligations and debts were ignored, and Eleanor kept on writing out new designs and plans.

Finally, the remaining other Whitmores had enough, separating themselves and more or less leaving their elderly grandmother to her own devices, paying just enough to maintain a skeleton crew of servants, keeping up the house- and its sole devoted resident. After Eleanor Whitmore was seen walking down the Corridor late at night- a hallway so long it was rumoured to appear, or perhaps even be, a half a mile in length- by a maid, the staff cleared out in a hurry when she did not appear again, not even after they searched the house for her for a full day. That night in 1958 was the last time she was ever seen, and for a few years the remaining Whitmores were happy enough to pretend the house- and the iron-willed old lady- had never been there in the first place.

At the suggestion of a few hungry members of the local historical society, though, the house was opened as a historical tourist attraction for visitors to Rockbridge, Maine in 1963. The cavernous, outrageously expensive house drew historians, young and old, from all over America- some, even, from over in Europe. Few mansions anywhere had ever been constructed with such a complete disregard for cost, practical use or function, or any adherence to a specific type of architecture.

But the tourists slowly thinned in numbers- people would go home and confide to those they trusted, and even then only once, that they felt like the house knew they were there. Knew, and was not happy. The tour guides, busy conducting their charges about the gigantic house, often seemed immune to this feeling- but one quietly told a friend that he felt like the house was watching him.

The tours kept going for some twenty years, until Susan West had wandered off from her group in 1982, drawn off for some reason, far off into the nearly-endless depths of the house. At first, the Rockbridge Historical Society had tried to hold out, merely suspending the tours while a search was conducted. Finally, though, when Susan West's handbag was found, torn and splattered with blood that was soon confirmed to be hers, even the most die-hard historian on the RHC's board threw in the towel. The cold, drafty halls of the house, that dark wood paneling that seemed all the more laced with a hidden, quiet hate for its immense beauty, had become a little too obvious to ignore.

But the mysterious, troubled history of Fleetwood Hall continued to fascinate, though, and certain historical groups offered the RHC donations merely to leave the house alone. Those few living descendants of Eleanor Whitmore wanted nothing to do with their elderly matriarch's strange, bizarre old mansion. It seemed to have inherited her powerful, brilliantly intelligent presence- but also her deep-running, simmering hatred for men, and for all who did not live up to her lofty standards for conduct in a distinguished family. Eleanor Whitmore was not a nice woman by the time she was last seen, passing a hundred on that June evening in 1958. The house had, it seemed, taken on her spirit- and resolved to continue her work.

As they walked across town the following day, Henry explained all this to Mark, telling the tale in bits and pieces- every bit of it fascinated Henry immensely. Mark could tell this had been a subject of great interest to Henry for years.

What was strangest to Mark's ears- and surely to anyone's- was that the house didn't always seem to adhere to the blueprints. It was a phenomenon that had first been noticed in the 1940's- Preston Whitmore II had noted in his journal a deep sense of unease as he wandered the halls of the house, especially at night. It seemed like the house sometimes liked to 'change'; that is, change things up. Do things differently. Rooms you'd never seen before- and were nowhere on existing blueprints- would appear, and doors would vanish. The Reversal Room, a perfectly-copied 1930's business office designed to be completely upside-down, was once in a while seen the right way up. The cavernous Mirror Library, its entire floor made of mirrored, reflective glass, would appear one day, and be impossible to find the next. This last fact frustrated historian visitors immensely, as the Mirror Library, with tall bookshelves ringing the circular wall of the room, had one of the most valuable and unique book collections in New England.

But, Henry had noted with a smile, folks lost their courage after Miss West made her disappearance. She was not the first to disappear in the house- in fact, if the rumours had any truth, Susan West had merely joined a crowd of more than ten. Mostly Whitmores, but visitors and even a Hollywood socialite had also vanished in the vastness of Fleetwood Hall. Mark felt a strange coldness take hold of him as they walked, in a way that had nothing to do with the weather- in fact, it was actually a relatively warm day.

No- it was that house. Mark walked beside Henry readily enough, but began wondering if he might not just let Henry go on in while they got there.

Hull Street ran far out on the edge of town; opposite of the area where Henry's family lived, Fleetwood Hall stood imposingly on a sloping, tree-lined hill. Twin brick columns bearing the Whitmore family crest flanked the twin, wrought-iron gates. More than twelve feet in height, the gates stood shut and locked- just as they had been for years.

Through them, Mark got his first glimpse of the house- that massive, breathtaking house. Fleetwood Hall. Its exterior built chiefly of brick, the house's massive front loomed imposingly some hundred yards back from the front gate. Countless dozens of tall, dark windows let Mark stare curiously into the house from the gates- though, looking past the massive, long-dry stone water fountain marking the centre of the front of the driveway, Mark distantly wondered if the house wasn't also staring back at him.

Henry, standing beside his cousin, could have plucked the thought from his mind.

"It is, Mark; it is," Henry said quietly, almost with a reverence.

"What?" Mark asked, though he knew perfectly well what Henry meant.

Henry had no smirk or grin to offer now; even he, it seemed, was feeling some measure of apprehension, of fear. He just said, "The house, Mark. It sees us. It knows we're here."

"Uh… okay." Mark felt very nervous.

Now Henry did smile; he dropped to his knees, then lay out flat on the ground, slowly crawling sideways towards the gate. Mark watched, fascinated, as Henry slipped under the tall, black iron gates and stood up, brushing himself off and facing Mark.

"Come on, Mark," he said, beckoning and starting to walk up the drive toward the house. Mark hesitated; this was against his better judgment. It was early afternoon; Henry had promised his parents they'd be back before dark… but now Mark wondered.

Henry looked back and saw Mark still standing on the other side of the gate. He smirked, motioning again for Mark to follow him. "Are you sure it's safe?" Mark asked, suddenly wanting an excuse not to go with his cousin. For some reason, he really had doubts that just walking into one of the hugest and creepiest houses in America, a house whose interior seemed to have a life all of its own, was all that good an idea.

But Henry just smirked at Mark's nervousness. He cocked his head at Mark, a mocking smile on his face. "Oh, now Mark. Don't tell me we're gonna have to go through this again. You gotta stop being scared, Mark. Just come on, I want to show you what I found here."

Finally, Mark sighed. He could always refuse to go in the house, even if he went under the gate.

After crawling under the gates in imitation of Henry, Mark stood up, brushed himself off, and stood facing his cousin. But suddenly, Mark was startled to see Henry wasn't there; he was up at the front door, standing before the house, looking up at it with a look of awe on his face.


	14. Chapter 14- Fleetwood Hall

**Chapter XIV- Fleetwood Hall**

* * *

**A/N: Throughout the chapters dealing with Fleetwood Hall, I drew a lot of inspiration for the history, nature and appearance of the house from Rose Red in the TV miniseries by that name; "Stephen King's Rose Red". Also, other aspects of these next few chapters additionally draw inspiration from Stephen King's short story "Gramma". If you've seen the miniseries and read that short story, you'll know what I'm talking about. If not- just read on.**

* * *

Mark reluctantly walked over to stand beside his cousin; a gust of wind came up the drive then, scattering a thin sheet of snow towards them from one of the drifts nearby. Mark winced, but Henry didn't seem to notice. He just kept looking up at the three panes of tall glass, part of some room directly above the entrance hall. That was probably what passed for the second floor, but it was hard to say- how many floors Fleetwood Hall possessed, as well as how many rooms, depended on who you asked and on what day of the week it was.

"Come on, Evans- you really think I'm gonna believe you don't got five bucks on ya? There better be some dollars today."

"I do-don't have anything…"

Cruel laughter. "Bullshit."

Mark suddenly gasped, looking around. Where had that come from? The voice of Sean Walters, of himself just a year ago- where had any of it come from? Was his mind just replaying old, none-too-pleasant audio tapes of memory, influenced in its own way by this strange, old house?

Looking up at the imposing form of Fleetwood Hall, Mark shivered. Every imported French window was perfectly etched and placed, its frame carved and assembled by hand. Every brick looked just like the next, and yet- also produced with special care- they all looked slightly different. But there was not one mistake in measurements- no brick, window, or roof shingle was even vaguely out of place. The house loomed above Mark, an imperious mix of an English lord's home outside of London and a Gothic cathedral. It drew off multiple styles of European architecture, and somehow, in drawing cues from all the great nations of Europe, it created a type of rich man's house that was uniquely American. At the start of the 20th century, anybody who was somebody had a house that looked like this one.

Except ten people hadn't disappeared in most of those houses, never to be seen or heard from again. That was not an especially common trait, even among old estates.

Mark didn't like the house, he didn't like how cold it was out here in the yard, and he didn't like the way his cousin seemed so awed by it, almost entranced. He glanced at Henry, who was still gazing up at the house, a distant look in his eyes.

"I don't like this; I think we should go." Henry spoke those words suddenly, distantly; it didn't even sound like him, somehow.

Mark stared at his cousin, so shocked he could barely think.

Those were the exact words Mark had been getting ready to say.

Suddenly seized by an urgent need to act, to break this weird moment before it went any further, Mark reached over and shook Henry by the shoulder. "Hey! Come on, man!"

Henry blinked, looking over at Mark. "Huh?"

"You were just staring up at the house." Mark pointed, "Up at those windows. It was kinda creepy."

The blonde looked back at Mark, then up at the windows. "Oh. Did I say something?"

"Yeah," Mark said uneasily, "You said, 'I don't like this. I think we should go."

At that, Henry laughed. "I think you're a little out of it today, Mark. Why would I walk you all this way up here, just to say that?"

Mark just looked back at his cousin, unsure of what to say. Now did not seem like a time to mention that Henry's words had been the exact ones Mark had been about to speak.

Finally, Henry just shook his head, shaking off whatever had just happened. "Come on," he said, and Mark reluctantly followed as they walked up to the huge, decoratively-carved front doors. Made of heavy white oak, they were solid enough to withstand far more than a winter wind's howls. As Mark eyed them, he guessed somebody had thought to make sure the front doors could stand at least a few hits from most battering rams. Why? No reason. Just in case suddenly Fleetwood Hall needed to be defended against an invading army using Medieval technology.

The brass doorknobs were big; round and shiny, they themselves weren't special, except for some reason they looked just a little too big. He couldn't say quite how, or why- but he was sure of that somehow. Somehow.

Henry set a hand on Mark's shoulder, looking at him reassuringly. "We'll be fine, Mark."

Mark said nothing, but held in place as Henry began to look over the doors. "What are you looking for?" Mark said after a few moments, unable to keep quiet about his curiosity.

"Ah!" Henry gasped; he had set a hand on the right doorknob. It was the same sound Henry had made when Mark had kneed him in the balls a few nights ago- it was as if Henry was in pain, but somehow enjoying it.

Mark set a hand on his cousin, trying to shake him out of whatever he was going into again. This whole thing was creeping him out, and for a moment Mark was nearly seized by a crazy urge to just turn and bolt for the gates. Let Henry do whatever he damn well pleased; Mark didn't have to be a part of it.

Suddenly, Mark gasped, almost as surprised as Henry had sounded. Henry, he could feel even through the winter coat, was trembling. His entire body was vibrating, as if channeling a current of electricity.

Or perhaps something else.

Memories of painful blows to the stomach; a bigger boy's face, standing over him after school. "Come on, Evans. You hit like a girl. Get up and fight like a girl some more."

Mark, trying to stand again- and being cut down once more, just the same.

Walking home that day, wishing Sean Walters would break a leg or something.

"Ah! Damn!" Henry gasped again, and suddenly his right hand, gripping the doorknob, jerked to the right with a sudden flick of his wrist.

The right door swung open.

Henry, either not seeing or not caring about the fearful, bewildered look on his cousin's face, walked inside without hesitation.

"What was that?" Mark asked as they got inside. It was cool in the house, and the entrance hall was indeed cavernous; a family of twelve could have set up complete living quarters here. It was also grand, just as Henry had said- paintings of great age and worth hung on the walls, which were paneled with extremely expensive wood carvings almost everywhere. The old lamps hanging on the walls almost had to be gas; this house might not have a single electric light, not if the Whitmores last to live here had preferred gas lighting instead.

A massive staircase, made of dark, polished wood set over a stone base, stood directly before them, at least fifty feet away. Mark marveled at the fossils he could see encased in the black tiles of the floor; this room had enough space that the entrance hall could easily have functioned as a ballroom.

Perhaps that had been the idea.

Everything about Fleetwood Hall had clearly been designed to impress. Mark was unsure of just how, or in what way- but impressed he was.

Henry, gazing around the hall, said quietly, "It's beautiful, Mark. Isn't it?"

Mark looked back at Henry. He was starting to get a very bad feeling about this whole thing…

Finally, Mark repeated his question of a moment ago. "What was going on earlier? Just there, outside?"

Henry looked back for a moment, seeming to be confused. Then he shrugged. "Oh, I got you. I dunno, Mark. I guess I'm just kinda tired, you know? We stayed up kinda late last night."

He paused.

"Besides," he swept a hand around the cavernous room, "I just can't believe my great aunt really built this whole place."

Mark went very still, staring in amazement. "You mean- we're _related_ to the Whitmores?"

Henry nodded, his voice taking on a hint of anger. "They changed the name. Hoped it would break…. I dunno. The family bogies?"

Henry held up his fingers, wiggling them and moaning like a ghost.

In spite of himself, Mark laughed. "So what're we here for?"

The blonde seemed to consider this for a second, as if he had to make up his mind on it. "I think we'll go see the old library, Mark. The house has several, but we'll go see the coolest one. I found it up on the fourth floor last year. Come on!"

And with that, Henry raced towards the front stairs, ignoring Mark's shouts for him to wait up. He didn't even slow until he'd reached the top of the stairs, then turned and watched with amusement as Mark hurried to catch up.

Mark glanced down at the carpet beneath him; it was thick, and like everything else in the house, very expensive. To his left and right, a hallway stretched off into the distance. No lights were on, and with there being few windows in the hall itself, Mark could barely see the end.

Henry was heading to the left, walking casually down the hallway. It was dark that way; at best, the light was dim in most areas, and the shadows stood strong and black. "What have we gotta go that way for?" Mark asked, nervous and eager not to start wandering off into the darkened depths of the house.

Henry turned back, shrugging. "The stairs up to the fourth floor are down this hall. You scared, Mark?"

Mark glowered at the mocking smile on his cousin's face; Henry was clearly daring him to chicken out and run for it.

_Fraidy-cat, fraidy-cat, chicken-guts fraidy-cat!_

The thought leaped into Mark's mind, unbidden, and he defiantly set his jaw and started down the hallway himself. Be damned if he was gonna let Henry get the best of him this easy. Fleetwood Hall was just a big, empty old house. With a very weird architect behind it, and a bit of a penchant for eating people.

The Evans Family House of Horrors! Mark thought crazily, and a nervous laugh escaped him before he could clap a hand over his mouth.

"What's funny?" Henry asked, glancing at his cousin strangely.

"Oh, nothing," Mark giggled. "Let's just go."

Henry gave Mark another odd look, but walked on into the house.

Now and then they would pass a room, and behind its closed door Mark could see the sun shining in, and the wind howling outside. It had definitely picked up speed since they had gone in. At the very least Mark was grateful for that; it was quite a few miles back to Susan and Wallace's house across town.

"Mark, why do most people feel bad when they do things- like, hurt somebody?"

Mark slowed his step, looking curiously at his cousin. But Henry's eyes held no mockery, no contempt- this was, quite possibly, the first time Mark had heard Henry ask a question and be genuinely interested in hearing the answer.

"What do you mean?" Mark asked, not quite sure of what Henry was getting at. Henry responded, "Well, I mean, like if something happens to your brother… if he gets hurt… you're supposed to be sad, right?"

Mark walked along, nodding a little. "Yeah, of course. That's a terrible thing."

Henry nodded, seeming a little lost in his own thoughts. "Yeah," Henry said after a few moments of silence, "Real terrible. Real sad."

Then he glanced over at his cousin, that curiosity coming back into his eyes again. "So why don't I feel sad, Mark?"

Now it was Mark's turn to stare. "Huh?"

Henry shrugged, for once having trouble finding the words. "I- well, I don't know. I just don't feel sad very much."

Mark was intrigued by the statement; Henry seemed almost as if he was trying to explain something he didn't fully understand- and it clearly baffled Henry that such a thing was even possible. So smart, so sure of his own wit and ability, Henry reacted with a sort of baffled fury whenever something surprised him or defied his understanding.

"Well, what _do_ you feel?" Mark asked after a moment. It was a good response, as good as he could come up with right now.

Henry walked along beside his cousin, looking a little shy as he dropped his eyes to the floor. "Not much."

Mark looked at his cousin, unsure of what to say. This was a lot to take in at once. What was Henry trying to say here? Was he just revealing something, and not really making any special point at all? Henry often seemed to have little specific goal in things he did. He just… did things. Because he felt like it.

Suddenly, as they continued walking the length of the seemingly-endless hallway, Henry glanced over at his cousin again. "What's love, Mark?"

Mark looked sharply at Henry, trying to see if he was being made fun of, but again, Henry gazed back with that curious look on his face. He really wanted to know.

"Well," Mark began slowly, "It's hard to explain. You feel very emotional about somebody, but it's in a good way. Because you really, really care about them."

Henry continued walking down the hallway, and for some reason Mark was grateful for the conversation. It made him feel less afraid, less inclined to think he'd made a mistake by even entering the house in the first place. Whatever presence the house had- if indeed Mark wasn't just imagining it- it seemed to weaken, draw back into the darker shadows, when Henry and Mark were talking, both their minds off the house and its bizarre history.

For a few moments, Henry was silent, apparently deep in thought. "Hmm. You know what's strange, Mark?"

"What?"

"I've heard that before. I can say the words; I mean, I can say 'I love you', but they're just words to me."

Mark found this hard to believe; even Henry, strange as he could be, had to be able to understand things like love and sorrow. They were just part of the normal range of human emotions; everybody had the capacity for them. Or- maybe some didn't.

Maybe some people had something… missing.

Like Henry.

"You mean you can't feel love?" Mark asked, finding this incredible. It was a lot to take in, and Henry was being so calm, so dispassionate about it. It was like he was reading from a textbook, slowing now and then as he became frustrated over not knowing the meaning of all the words. Not truly understanding.

Henry just shrugged. "I don't know, Mark. Maybe I don't. But," he went on, "I don't worry about it like I used to."

They walked; the hallway just went on and on. Mark glanced behind him, and nearly tripped over his own feet when he saw how far they'd gone. The start of this hallway looked like it was a hundred yards away.

Suddenly, Henry halted, turning to his right and lifting a painting off the wall. It was a large, golden-framed illustration of some very old, very big- and of course expensive- roadster. The car had a two-tone paint job of maroon and silver, with a long hood that no doubt concealed many cylinders. Henry grunted as he lifted the picture, carefully setting it down against the wall. Mark recoiled, briefly seized by a terrible certainty that he did not want to see whatever was under there. In any other house, he'd expect just more wood paneling and wallpaper. But here…

All there was, though, was more wallpaper, a slightly paler green-gray. There was a square metal door covering something, though; it resembled a very old fuse box. Or maybe it was the master switch for the house's lighting, whatever powered it. Henry went to work on the switches, flipping some and ignoring others. Mark briefly wondered how in the hell the lights were supposed to come on if the power bill probably hadn't been paid in years, but with a quiet growl-hiss sound, gas lamps flared to life along the hallway.

Shutting the door covering the switches again, Henry smiled at Mark and bent to pick up the picture. After replacing the painting, he motioned to Mark, and onward they went.

"How'd you know that was there?" Mark asked, amazed- and much more at ease, now that he wasn't steadily walking into a darker hallway.

Henry just shrugged. "I told you I've been here before."

"Doesn't this place bother you?"

Henry looked at Mark oddly, as if he really had no idea what his cousin was talking about. "What? Why would it?"

Mark just looked back at Henry, shrugging uneasily. "It's big, and dark, and creepy. This place would be a great haunted house."

Henry just laughed.

Before Mark could say anything else, though, Henry suddenly spun to the right, putting a hand on one of the many doors lining the hall. "What's along here?" Mark asked, glancing up and down the hall curiously. The wood paneling and wallpaper was tastefully done, and had held up well over the years. But with so many doors- and no windows- what purpose did this incredibly long hallway serve? It was even bigger than the largest hotel Mark had been to. Half the town he lived in back in Arizona could have stayed on this hallway, were the doors all to bedrooms.

Henry glanced back at Mark. "Oh, lots of things. Bedrooms, storage closets, drawing rooms, painting rooms, an extra kitchen." Henry paused, amusement twinkling in his eyes.

"Some of the doors go absolutely nowhere."

Mark stared, incredulous. "Nowhere? At all?"

Henry nodded. "Great-Aunt Eleanor wanted it that way. She wanted things to be… more than they appeared." Henry considered. "Or less."

Mark paused; a very important question had suddenly occurred to him. "Why didn't your parents ever talk about this place?"

Henry shrugged. "I'm not sure."

Mark had a feeling his cousin was lying.

For the moment, though, he put that aside. Mark looked at the door Henry had taken an interest in. "I wanna get going here. How about that door?"

"Yeah," Henry said, "This one goes somewhere."

Henry swung the door open slowly, dramatically, grinning a little in… anticipation.

Of what?

Before Mark could even question that, Henry swung the door wide open- it was almost completely black in there, but Mark could see the outlines of a spiraling staircase, going up and up into the darkness- and shoved Mark inside. Mark shouted in surprise, but he spun around too slow, and the door slammed shut, cutting off the sound of Henry's laughter.


	15. Chapter 15- Quiet Hallways

**Chapter XV- Quiet Hallways**

* * *

Mark pounded furiously on the closed door; he was angry, furious even. Henry had tricked him- again! If he ever caught up to him…

Mark yelled and pounded, pounded and yelled- but nothing happened. If Henry could hear Mark, he was ignoring him. And there was always the possibility that Henry couldn't hear him at all- these heavy old doors were far from cheap.

Finally, Mark turned around, groping about and wishing for his eyes to hurry up and adjust to the dark.

His hands, after a few moments, felt the stairs, found the railing. He looked up- distantly, far above, Mark could make out the outline of the top of the staircase- or maybe that was just as far as his eyes could see. If this staircase went as far as the fourth floor, Mark could believe it. It looked like the stairs went a lot farther than that.

Standing there in the dark, Mark grew very still.

He could hear things.

Nothing specific- nothing you could put your finger on, not at first. But if it was 'just the wind' as people liked to say, now and then it sounded like the wind had learned to talk. If you listened, you could almost hear the words.

Mark froze at the base of the stairs; he could barely even tell how big a room this was. Where was he? He tried the knob of the door he'd been pushed through, but couldn't get it to turn.

Suddenly, a hand fell on Mark's shoulder. Mark could have jumped ten feet in the air, easily. He screamed, spinning around. A flashlight suddenly flicked on, blinding him. "Aah!" Mark cried, and Henry's mocking laughter answered him.

"Hey, come on! This isn't funny!" Mark yelled, but Henry just chuckled as he lowered the flashlight, aiming it down at the floor.

"Funny?" Henry's voice was lazy, amused. "What do you think this is, Mark? A game?"

Then the light was off again, and as Mark stumbled around, trying to follow Henry with his eyes now completely blinded to the dark, he could hear his cousin racing up the flights of stairs. Grabbing hold of the railing, Mark raced after him, tripping and banging his knees or even his chin more times than he'd have cared for.

"Henry!" Mark cried, both scared and furious. "Wait up!"

"Come on, Mark!" Henry called back, now sounding eager- so eager, in fact, that he just couldn't wait up at all. "Come on, the library's up this way!"

Mark cursed furiously, but kept staggering up the spiraling flights of steps after Henry. He passed a landing, carpeted of course and with a single door facing him. Opposite that door, there was another landing that led to a blank stretch of wall. This process was repeated, over and over, until-

Mark, so focused on his fast climb up the stairs, never even looked up after he got used to it. Suddenly, he smacked into something as he reached the third landing up. Or was it the fourth?

Regardless, Mark rebounded, just barely catching himself on the railing. Had he missed it, he might have rolled back down the steps for a very long time.

"Watch it there, Mark," Henry's voice said, lazy but admonishing too. "Gotta be careful. Seems like the lights don't work in here."

Making his way up onto the landing and sitting down to catch his breath, Mark glared up at Henry. "Where'd you get that flashlight? How'd you even get in here?"

Then he jumped up, and shoved Henry hard. "And don't you ever throw me in a dark room like that again!"

Henry just smiled. "Good, Mark. You wanna be the one in charge, huh?"

"Damn right I do!" Bitter and angry, the words were out of Mark's mouth before he could even think about it. He paused, briefly startled. He'd never talked like that before.

Henry turned to the door near them. "That door's a fake," he said. "Try it."

Glowering at Henry still, Mark rose and walked the ten feet or so across the carpeted landing. Confidently, he set his hand on the doorknob- the brass device turned easily, functioning well even nearly a hundred years later.

Mark pulled back the door-

-and saw wallpaper.

Stunned, he looked back at Henry, whose face was lit from below by the flashlight he had aimed at the floor. It made Henry look even creepier than he normally was. "Surprised?"

Mark shook his head. "So where's the real door?"

Henry walked across the stairs, over to the blank wall. He ran his hands along it, searching for something. "There," he said, pointing at a seemingly ordinary section of the wallpaper, pointing with his finger. "Push that with your hand."

Mark walked over, glancing at the wall. "It's just wallpaper," he said, really starting to wish he could just bail out of this whole thing. But they were a long way into the house now. If Mark decided to leave, he might not do so well getting out. No, he was probably going to have to see this through.

Henry motioned at the wall again, tracing a circle with his finger.

"Go on," was all he said.

Finally, Mark did as he was told. He set his left hand within the spot Henry had pointed to, giving it a good, solid push.

Chunk!

The 'wall' swung back, revealing a disguised section that was the true, functional door.

Mark didn't know whether to be terrified or amazed. This house had been built by someone whose imaginative powers far exceeded the ordinary. It was as if Dr. Seuss had been able to design a house, one that in no way had to make sense or be practical. And yet… on the outside at least, it did.

Another long, stretching hallway; this one, dimly lit by the gas lamps, had a different twist from the last. All the lamps were on the floor, and the carpeting was on the ceiling. It was a perfect reversal of an ordinary hallway- even the paintings hung upside down, and a few marble statues were held to the ceiling somehow.

"Wow," Mark said, awed in spite of himself.

"Yeah," Henry said, stepping into the hallway, his winter boots scraping on the maroon-painted 'ceiling'.

"Come on," Mark said, "Let's hurry up and see this library of yours."

Suddenly, Mark stared right at his cousin. "Doesn't this place scare you?" he said suddenly, shivering in the musty, cool air. He could imagine, with startling certainty, that even the individual molecules of air had stayed right in the same place in so many of these rooms and hallways. Somehow, Mark was very sure that all this and more had been- and yet, somehow, the house did not feel like a dead, empty place that had lain untouched and motionless for decades.

It felt more like a person would, as they began to wake up from a long nap.

Henry shook his head. "I never learned how to be afraid, Mark. It doesn't get me anything."

They walked down the reversed hallway, rounding a corner where suddenly everything was right again.

As they walked, Mark suddenly began growing very nervous again. The further he went into these darkened halls, the harder it would be if he suddenly had to get out. Whether or not the Glass Library was truly down this way, Mark had an eerie feeling that Henry knew exactly where they were, knew that Mark on his own would be hopelessly lost… and was counting on that.

For what?

Just as Mark was about to turn and head for the stairs- perhaps right now, he could still find his way back out- Henry set a hand on Mark's shoulder. "Mark!" he said, his face lit with excitement. "I found it. We're here!"

Henry turned to his right and set his hand on a door, flanked to either side by dimly flaring lamps. He turned the knob and pushed-

Mark gasped.

The Glass Library was through the opened door, and it was one of the most beautiful rooms Mark had ever seen.


	16. Chapter 16- The Glass Library

**Chapter XVI- The Glass Library**

* * *

**A/N: Remember that the final part of this chapter, in particular, is based off of what happens to George in Stephen King's short story "Gramma". Also, note that Henry is still the same kid he's always been, both before the events of this story and after. The way I looked at it, Henry- being a born sociopath- is more than mean enough for Fleetwood Hall's standards. Because of how cold and ruthless Henry is, the house is not a hindrance to him like it is for most people. If anything, the house just makes Henry a little stronger.**

* * *

In spite of his fear, in spite of his unease- and a quiet voice, telling him to back out now before he made a terrible mistake- Mark was awed. The library's floor was entirely reflective glass- mirrors. A white, dome-like ceiling arched high overhead, and white marble lined the walls. High above them, electric lights ringed the ceiling, hidden from sight at the start of the dome's base at the top of the walls of marble.

And the books- bookshelves, made entirely of flawless, naturally-dark-green glass, lined the walls, running from Mark's left and right to the far side of the room. Strangely, there were no chairs or sofas anywhere in sight- maybe this library had been designed with visual impressiveness being the highest priority, and practicality taking backstage. Perhaps you were supposed to read the books you found here- there had to be over a thousand- in another room.

Henry and Mark walked into the library for a time, gazing down at their own reflections and up at the ceiling, high above. Glancing back, Mark could see Henry had for some reason left the flashlight in the hallway, just outside.

"See," Henry said calmly, "Now was this worth it? Was it really so bad getting lost in the dark for a minute?"

"Tell me about _Richard_," Mark said suddenly. His voice was harsh, commanding- he surprised himself even by speaking it.

Henry blinked; he hadn't expected this.

"I heard your parents talking," Mark said, "They said he drowned."

Henry stared back. "He did."

"In _six inches_ of water?"

Now Henry's gaze was turning icy. "I guess so. I wouldn't know, Mark- I was downstairs playing."

Suddenly, Mark decided he'd had enough of Henry lying to him. He was done with this nonsense, and he was through with getting lost in this house without even a trail of breadcrumbs to follow back. But before he got out of here, he would see that one question answered.

Mark grabbed Henry, seized hold of his winter coat, that pretty tan thing with the nice, white fur lining on the inside. "Quit lying to me, Henry!" Mark snapped. "I wanna _hear_ it. Did you kill Richard?"

Now Henry stared back flatly, his eyes like those of a shark- deadly, cold, and utterly remorseful. Dark, cold things swam beneath the surface of those eyes. Henry's lips began to move, and in a voice hardly above a whisper, he gave a tiny shrug and said, "What if I did?"

Mark suddenly felt very afraid. His head seemed to clear, and in that instant Mark realised he had made a terrible mistake coming here. He didn't like Henry, and didn't want to be like him. He could already tell his choices, going along with Henry, had really screwed things up. But maybe there was still time!

The dark-haired boy let go of his cousin, turning and bolting for the library's door. Henry called after him, but Mark refused to listen. He refused to stop.

Beneath his feet, Mark's feet were slowly gaining grip, as if the floor was growing soft. He glanced down, and saw with dawning horror that- somehow- the mirrored glass was turning fluid; his feet were forming ripples as they hit, and sinking in a little more each time.

"I'm gonna give you a head start, Mark," Henry's voice called after him. It was lazy, almost unconcerned- like he knew Mark was gonna do this.

Maybe he had.

By the time Mark finally staggered over to the door, he was sinking into the mirror floor up to his knees. He had to fight for every step; the floor felt like a thick, thick paste. It felt vaguely cold, and yet vaguely warm- as if it was alternating, pulsing with some strange life of its own.

The doorway! Mark reached it, hauling himself up and panting hard, grateful to have escaped the horror-show that library had turned out to be. Wasting not even a second, Mark snatched up the flashlight- glancing back for just an instant to see Henry, his hands twisted into claws and a horribly eager look on his face, starting to sprint after him. Mark slammed the door hard and bolted down the hall; he felt a sudden jolt of horror when he realised that, for Henry, the floor was still solid. Henry's run had started out just fine, his boots smacking hard on the smooth mirror floor.

But there was no time for thinking about the how and why of that. In fact, there was quite literally no time at all. Mark switched on the flashlight as the gas lamps- of course- cut off, the house turned traitor against him, even though no one could have possibly reached even the switch for this hallway. He sprinted down the hallway, rounding a corner and going back the way he'd come.

Fear raced through Mark; as he ran, he had a sudden certainty of why he'd been brought here, what was going to happen if he didn't get away, and get away soon. Henry had discovered something here years ago; an already cold boy had found a way to embrace his coldness, and now wanted a playmate who had the right stuff. Like preparing a chicken to be cooked, you had to prepare the playmate first, test him and ensure he had the right basic criteria. After all, a chicken whose meat was bad would always be that way. Simply putting it in the oven wouldn't quite fix everything.

But Mark knew Henry had figured out what would fix the issues his would-be best friend currently had. He didn't feel like hanging around for the final step of the process.

Mark ran. His feet pounded down the hall, and he ran faster and more desperately than he'd ever done in his life. He knew what was going to happen, what he just had to do. He would run. He would flee, he would bolt straight through every door that he had to and get out of this awful house. He would run straight out into the approaching night- he and Henry had spent hours in here by now- and run back across Rockbridge.

It would be hard, yes- Mark would not have an easy time getting away.

But he had no choice. He had to try.

Mark had to try because if he didn't, if he stopped or slowed up now, and Henry caught up to him…

Terror gripped Mark at what he thought about next. He was not going to die here, and neither was Henry. Somehow, Mark was just very sure of that. If Mark failed, if he did not get away from his cousin now, the two boys would still return home tonight, and Mark would be alive, and Henry too, oh, yes… but Mark would have developed a sudden taste for cigarettes. Cigarettes, crossbows that fired railroad bolts… and never feeling the need to actually say sorry- and mean it.

Footsteps behind Mark, thumping hard on the carpeted floor. Mark could see the door the spiraling staircase just ahead of him, perhaps twenty feet away- on this side, illuminated in the flashlight's shining beam, the door was just a door.

Mark tried to pour on the speed, tried to dig in his heels and run even harder, but already he was going faster than he'd ever known he could. Sweat poured off him in beads, and he knew even as he closed in on the door- ten feet- that he'd never get his hand on the knob.

Wham! Mark's feet suddenly flew out from under him, and he saw stars as he struck the floor and his head hit the flashlight, sending it rolling away.

Mark rolled over, gasping and panting hard. Above him, he could see Henry's pale face, flushed from the brief run- but hardly exhausted. Henry had just been getting started.

Barely able to speak, Mark tried to crawl backwards, but Henry straddled him with his legs, pinning him down. "Let me go!" Mark shouted, pulling in air and renewing his fight. "Let me go! I'm getting out of here!"

Henry grinned, a warm, angelic smile of a boy who always went to church and looked both ways before he crossed the street. A good son, who had long ago figured out what adults most liked and wanted- and how to look the way he needed to in order to go unnoticed in their world. Only children could easily sense something was off- a thing or two missing, an item out of place.

Maybe Susan would have listened, had Mark told her.

_I should've tried_, Mark thought desperately. _I should have tried harder._

Henry leaned down over Mark, hooking his hands into claws and setting them firmly about Mark's throat. "You'll get out of here, Mark," he whispered, "But I have to show you the way."

Mark flailed his arms with fury, striking at Henry as hard and as fast as he could. But none of it seemed to make any difference; none of it seemed to have any effect as Henry began to squeeze, his hands bands of iron around Mark's neck.


	17. Chapter 17- The Second Face

**Chapter XVII- The Second Face**

* * *

They had come back late that night; Susan had been growing frantic with worry, and Wallace did his share of yelling once the boys returned, berating them about the importance of coming back on time. It was enough that Connie was in the hospital, and it was more than generous of Wallace and Susan to allow Henry and Mark such freedom in the first place. Wallace was angry- and disappointed- that they would put their family to such worry and abuse it.

Henry and Mark took the stern lecture Susan gave them- and Wallace's angry tirade- with bowed heads and quiet apologies, making no effort to argue or protest. Both of them seemed tired, dazed; as if the day's adventures had quite exhausted them, and they had no energy to spare for arguing with parents.

Mark was quiet through dinner, but when asked questions he responded clearly, and with confidence. For once, when telling the tale of the day's events came up, Mark did more of the talking than Henry, who looked especially worn out. They'd gone sight-seeing all over town, Mark said, and had even gotten into a few snowball fights. No mention was made of seeing any houses- nothing was said of any huge, old house once owned by somewhat distant relatives. Susan and Wallace made a note to not let the boys wander so far in that direction on their own anymore- but everything seemed fine. Tired as they were, Mark and Henry got along well enough at dinner, and seemed to have even patched up their earlier differences.

Henry and Mark both asked about Connie, and appeared relieved when told she was doing fine.

The next day, Connie's fifth day in the hospital and closing in on her return home, Mark and Henry calmly assured Wallace and Susan that everything would be fine while they left for dinner. They would remain in the house, keeping an eye on things, and understood that the restaurant's phone number was on the fridge's door.

Wallace and Susan left for their first dinner outing in quite a while, feeling very grateful that Mark and Henry were both so at ease with the situation. They were accepting, even eager- perhaps to prove that they could, indeed, be left alone to be in charge.

"They're such good boys," Susan said, and Wallace agreed. "We're lucky to have them."

Once his parent's car had pulled out of the driveway and its red taillights vanished into the growing darkness, Henry jumped back from the blinds in the living room. "Come on, Mark!" he cried, racing upstairs. Mark followed him, interested but curious. "What?"

Henry reached the main hallway upstairs and pulled down the blinds at the far end of the hall. He looked at Mark, smiling warmly. "We gotta toughen you up, Mark," Henry said. "I gotta teach you how to fight."

Mark nodded; he had few reservations about that idea. He'd learned about the karate classes Henry had been taking, and about how Henry could now even beat up bigger kids at school if he wanted. Henry was fast, smart, and mean- and yet if he felt like it, he could be kind and generous. Mark had been feeling a little odd since he'd passed out in that big house earlier in the day- Henry said he'd tripped and hit his head on a flashlight- but he felt better, too. His throat was sore- Mark guessed it was because of all that cold he'd been exposed to. A fierce Maine winter could do all sorts of things you hadn't experienced before.

Henry stripped to his khaki pants, and Mark did the same. Facing each other in the hallway, each boy bowed elegantly to the other.

Then they advanced, and the fists flew. Mark only knew rough, improvised schoolyard fighting, and even then not much of it. He landed some good blows now and then, but Henry was advancing fast and hard. His fists, clenched just right, struck in calculated blows; as Mark took hit after hit in the chest and ribs, it sounded like Henry was chopping wood. Henry soon drove Mark back towards the window, slamming him up against it. Suddenly, Mark lashed out and caught Henry in the throat; the blonde recoiled, coughing and gagging, and Mark struck out again with a blow to the stomach, chopping Henry to the floor.

Mark stood over Henry with a grin on his face. "Round one, Mark," he said, smiling.

They went straight on to another five rounds. Henry was a fast-moving, hard-hitting fighter, but Mark could strike out with surprising force. All he needed was to know what he was trying to do. He had to wade into a fight wanting to not just hurt his enemy, but kill him. Henry coached Mark all through their hand-to-hand duels, showing him all manner of moves and tricks. There were feints, acts of deception, and ways to counterattack. Always, Henry urged Mark, keep moving.

"If you stop in a fight, you're dead," Henry said simply, shrugging. "You have to keep going."

They were on round seven- it was 3-3, much to Henry's surprise- when the Evans elders got home. Mark, sweating furiously, had driven a panting Henry over to the top of the stairs. He had knocked Henry down, and planted a foot on his cousin's chest.

"I could break your nose now," Mark gloated, somehow delighting in the fact that he'd knocked his superior, high-and-mighty cousin down yet again. It felt good to be winning fights for once.

It felt good to be learning how to do it.

Henry just shrugged. "Go ahead," he said calmly. "Smash my nose. You gotta stomp pretty hard, though. There's gonna be blood everywhere."

He almost sounded like he wanted to see it. Mark grinned, thinking about indulging his cousin's request.

"Mark!"

"Henry!"

Wallace and Susan had just come in the front door, and were looking up from the base of the stairs. To say the least, they looked very shocked.

Immediately, both boys stopped what they were doing. Mark helped Henry to his feet, and both boys came down the stairs, smiling sheepishly as they came.

"I'm sorry, Mom," Henry said, looking suitably abashed. "We were just fighting."

Susan looked stunned. "Just _fighting_? Henry, when did I _ever_-"

"It's okay, Aunt Susan," Mark said, setting an arm around his cousin's bare shoulders and squeezing a little. He smiled warmly, and Henry smiled back.

"Henry was giving me some karate lessons," Mark said. "The hallway upstairs had room."

Finally, Susan and Wallace sighed, mostly out of relief that the two had not been actually trying to beat each other up. "Not so rough, okay, fellas?" Wallace said. "And if you want to practice like that, I got some boxing gloves in the basement. Both of you were probably gonna have bruises tomorrow."

Susan added, "And no fighting anywhere but the basement, in the carpeted play room down there. We don't need you breaking anything up here, and on these hard wood floors, one of you could get hurt."

Mark and Henry nodded, almost in unison. Wallace and Susan couldn't help but smile a little; it was nice to see them clicking so well. In the past day or two, especially, the two had started doing so much together, they seemed to be acting like brothers.

And Henry, for his part, no longer seemed jealous of any extra attention Mark or Connie might get. With Mark for a friend, he seemed content with everything- and, as Susan recalled, he and Mark must have had some very pointed discussions about Connie before now. Mark, somehow, had set Henry straight on a few things. Henry even took some time to come down to the living room that night- now in his pajamas, back to being fully clothed- to apologise for the accident a few days ago, and for not doing more to keep Connie safe.

Wallace and Susan were surprised, but pleased, to hear such calm, mature talk from their son. Henry was explaining what he felt he'd done wrong, and promising to do better in the future. Both his parents thanked Henry for coming to talk to them, and sent him back upstairs feeling much better about things. Even Susan felt her recent doubts starting to slip away- Mark was such a wonderful boy, and he was clearly showing Henry, already a good son, how to be better. Maybe that was it- perhaps that was the issue all along. Maybe Henry had just needed someone his own age to show him how to care about his sister.

Susan was startled, though, when she got upstairs later that night and saw Mark standing at the far end of the hall, leaning against the doorway to Henry's darkened room. It was a little odd that Mark was still up, but what was stranger still was the look she spotted on his face when she first looked at him. There one moment and gone the next, the look so surprised Susan she went to bed that night sure she'd imagined it. She'd been seeing things with Henry, maybe- but even that didn't seem to be true. No way could anything like that be possible with Mark.

But in that one moment, that single instant before Mark realised Susan could see him, he had the strangest smile on his face, the oddest gleam twinkling in his eyes.

It was almost contemptuous.

Almost a smirk.


End file.
